I am a person in long term recovery. I’ve shown up for my life every day, doing the work, staying accountable, and growing — through the good and the painful. But recently, I was reminded that not everyone sees recovery the way I do.
After a serious car accident, I found myself struggling mentally and emotionally — trauma, pain, fear, anxiety. I did what we’re told to do when we’re not okay: I reached out for help. I went to a psychiatrist. Instead of compassion, I was met with judgment.
The medications I was prescribed after the accident — to manage physical symptoms and distress — became the focus. Not the accident. Not the mental toll. Not the fact that I asked for help. He saw my choices not as survival or treatment, but as a “relapse.”
Without a conversation, he discharged me from his care. Just like that.
It was one of those pivotal moments where I didn’t feel like a person anymore. I wasn’t seen as someone hurting, reaching out. I was seen as an addict. A risk. A liability. The stigma hit hard.
Recovery isn’t a straight line. It’s not defined by a prescription bottle. It’s defined by honesty, self-awareness, and resilience. By the courage it takes to ask for help, even when it’s terrifying.
I’m still proud of my recovery. But I’m also tired — tired of being treated as less than because of it.
If you’ve ever felt dismissed, judged, or mislabeled because of your history — I see you. We are more than our pasts. We are people. And we deserve care that honors our humanity.