Part 1A-Opening

When I started thinking about what I wanted to write for my next blog post, one word kept coming to mind.

Boring.

Maybe that’s not the word everyone would use to describe treatment.

But it’s the word I’d use.

And I mean that as one of the greatest compliments I could ever give it.

So, I thought I’d tell my story.

Not just what treatment looked like from the outside, but what it actually felt like to live through it.

How something that once felt completely unmanageable could, through enough repetition, eventually lose its urgency.

How fear could go from feeling all-consuming to feeling ordinary.

And how ordinary could eventually become…boring.

So, what was treatment actually like?

And what do I mean when I say recovery got boring?

This will be my longest blog post yet, so to everyone who takes the time to read it, thank you.

I put a lot of time, thought, and heart into writing it, and I hope each of you takes something from my story.

But to understand why boredom became such an important marker of progress for me, you first have to understand what fear looked like before it lost its power.

Because fear is rarely experienced as “just fear” when you’re in the middle of it.

It feels urgent.

It feels convincing.

It makes ordinary situations feel like problems that need to be solved immediately.

And when your brain has spent long enough interpreting discomfort as danger, even the smallest things can begin to feel enormous.

That was the version of me who entered treatment.

There was nothing boring about it.

Every fear felt impossible.

My brain treated every single one like an emergency.

Then I faced the fear again.

And again.

Eventually, something changed.

The things that once felt impossible started feeling…ordinary.

Running to the store became repetitive.

Driving people around eventually felt like a chore.

Not because I was scared.

Because I was tired and honestly would’ve rather been doing something else.

Getting my phone taken away for twenty minutes eventually became,

“Okay…and?”

Instead of,

“What am I going to do?”

Sleeping at the facility stopped feeling like this huge event every night.

It just became…

Where I slept.

Being away from my parents wasn’t something I thought about every second anymore.

It slowly became my new normal.

Driving stopped feeling like an exposure.

It became a way to go get ice cream.

That’s when I realized something.

The fears weren’t changing.

I was.

The fear wasn’t running my life anymore.

And that’s one of the goals of treatment.

You face something that terrifies you enough times that the brain slowly stops assigning the same meaning to it.

What once registered as danger starts to register as familiar.

Familiar becomes ordinary.

Ordinary becomes repetitive.

And eventually…

It becomes boring.

When something becomes boring, it no longer demands the same level of attention.

It stops being the most important thing in the room.

And once that happens, you move on to the next fear.

Part 1B — How Am I Going to Do This?

If treatment eventually became boring…

It definitely didn’t start that way.

In fact, I don’t think I could’ve been more terrified.

Right before treatment, I was supposed to go on spring break.

I already knew my admission date. March 23rd.

I knew all the things I’d be leaving behind.

There were so many things I could’ve been thinking about.

Instead, in both the quiet and loud moments, there was only one thing on my mind.

How am I going to do this?

How was I supposed to be away from my parents…

When fifteen minutes already felt impossible?

There was nothing boring about that.

Every thought felt urgent.

Every fear felt real.

Every “What if?” felt like something I had to solve.

Then, my parents gave me two options.

“You move out and do it by yourself, or you do treatment and get professional help.”

At the time, I thought they were being harsh.

Looking back…

I’m incredibly grateful they were.

Because I was too scared to make that decision myself.

My family believed I could get better.

My friends believed I could get better.

Because I’ve always been a hard worker.

I just realized I had been putting that hard work into surviving…

Instead of living.

Eventually, I realized something.

If I could work that hard avoiding my fears…

Maybe I could work just as hard facing them.

But I had to want it.

Nobody could do treatment for me.

People could encourage me.

People could believe in me.

But I still had to be the one to walk through those doors.

I had to take the leap of faith.

Not because I knew everything would work out.

But because I knew I couldn’t keep building my life around fear.

So, I started looking into treatment centers.

I already knew the treatment center I ended up at was my top choice from the beginning.

I’d actually toured it years earlier, so I was already familiar with the facility.

There was something comforting about that.

Everything else felt terrifying.

Then came the evaluation.

I couldn’t lie anymore.

I had to write every fear down on the admission page.

Then I had to say them out loud during my Zoom call with a member of the team who’d decide whether I’d be admitted.

Honestly…

I felt ashamed.

I was twenty-four years old.

And I couldn’t be away from my parents.

To me, that sounded ridiculous.

One of the staff looked at my parents later on and said something I’ll never forget.

“Don’t try to make sense of it. It’s not supposed to make sense.”

That sentence changed something.

My parents are fixers.

When something is wrong, they want to understand it.

They want to know why.

They want to fix it.

But this wasn’t something they could fix for me.

Eventually, they had to stop trying to make every fear make sense.

And I had to stop waiting for my fears to make sense before I faced them.

Maybe some fears don’t need to make sense.

Instead, they just need to be faced.

Treatment hadn’t even begun.

And somehow…

I was already exhausted.

The hardest part hadn’t even happened yet.

I still had to walk through the front doors.

Part 1C — Walking Through the Doors

March 23, 2026.

The day I had spent weeks dreading.

My first week was partial hospitalization.

I was there from 9 a.m. to 4 p.m., seven days a week.

The following week, I’d move into residential.

Most people stayed around eight to twelve weeks.

I didn’t know yet that I’d be there for 101 days.

My parents pulled into the parking lot.

And I would not get out of the car.

I sat there crying.

The whole morning consisted of me crying, refusing to get out of the car, and refusing to say much of anything.

My parents couldn’t get me out of the car.

Eventually, they went inside and asked a staff member to come out.

She started walking up to the car.

And then I thought,

“Well…I’m not getting out of this.”

So I opened the door.

Looking back…

Stepping out of that car was the best decision I ever made.

Eventually, I made it inside.

The admissions coordinator brought my parents and me into a room to begin the intake process.

Honestly, I don’t remember much from that conversation.

I think I was so dissociated that my brain just stopped recording parts of the morning.

What I do remember is her asking for my ID.

I ripped it out of my wallet, slid it across the table, and said,

“Here.” Not exactly in the nicest tone either.

My mom immediately gave me the side-eye and said, “She’s nice, we promise. You’ll see.”

She knew the admissions coordinator was just trying to be kind.

And I know what my parents were probably thinking,

“Well…that’s not exactly the first impression we were hoping for.”

The truth is, I wasn’t trying to be rude.

I was terrified.

The least of my worries was how I was being perceived.

All I could think about was one thing.

My parents were about to leave me there.

A few days later, after I had settled in a little, I walked back up to the admissions coordinator and said,

“I’m sorry. I promise I’m not mean.”

Now we laugh about it.

Part 2A-The First Week

The first day actually got a bit better. I got Taco Bell with some of the patients, which naturally puts me in a better mood. And then a patient offered to pick me up a coffee, and she brought it back to me.

So, I felt a bit more comfortable with how welcoming everyone was. But I was far from comfortable. Or happy to be there.

But then by my third day, reality hit.

I wasn’t going home.

This wasn’t a bad dream.

This wasn’t temporary.

This was my life now.

I had known for weeks that I’d be starting treatment.

I knew the date.

I knew what the program looked like.

I knew all the things I’d be leaving behind.

But I had avoided thinking about it as much as I could.

Then there I was.

Living it.

I remember spending almost the entire day at the group house next door on my 3rd day.

I wouldn’t leave.

I cried.

A lot.

I hadn’t slept in days.

I’d barely eaten anything besides a banana.

I was pale.

Exhausted.

Completely overwhelmed.

I was on the phone with my mom when I saw one of the RCs walking over.

I hung up, and she came and sat beside me.

She didn’t try to fix what I was feeling.

She didn’t tell me to stop crying.

She didn’t rush me.

She was just calm.

She sat with me.

And she acknowledged how hard this would be.

She simply said,

“I know this is scary.”

There was something about her that I related to on a lot of things.

Because of that, I actually believed what she was saying.

She seemed so certain.

So, I trusted her.

She happened to be around a lot during my first few weeks, so she was really the only RC I trusted.

Outside of her, I was very skeptical of everyone else.

It wasn’t that they did anything wrong.

They were kind.

They cared.

They genuinely wanted to help.

The problem wasn’t them.

It was where my mind was.

When another RC would tell me I was going to be okay, my immediate thought was,

“How would you know? You don’t know what this feels like.”

Looking back, I realize I probably shouldn’t have made that assumption.

Just like they didn’t know me yet…

I didn’t know them. At all.

I didn’t know their stories.

I didn’t know what they had overcome.

Maybe they were helping people because, at one point, they needed help too.

And now, they were passing that help on to the next person.

As the weeks went on, I got to know them.

I built trust with them.

And I realized how much they cared.

Part 2B — Residential

A few days later, it was time to move into residential.

Treatment still wasn’t boring.

Not even close.

The night before, I cried.

Then I cried some more.

I had to say goodbye to my animals, not knowing when I’d see them again.

I had to say goodbye to my parents.

My friends.

Everything that felt familiar.

And remember…

A week before, fifteen minutes away from my parents felt impossible.

Now I was supposed to go live somewhere else.

Yeah…

No thanks.

The same residential counselor who came and sat with me in the group house also did my bag check.

So, I was like, “Ok, at least I know her. Because what even is a bag check?”

She put on gloves, and I was thinking, “What the fuck?” “Is this a drug search?” “Actually, what is my life right now?”

She started searching my bag, and I just kind of sat there questioning my life.

Then she was like, “Wait I want this perfume,” and I was like “You can try it.”

She sprayed it on her.

Something about her carefree energy helped me get out of my head a bit.

We got along well. So between her and a few of the patients, I felt a little less alone.

But, I was still scared shitless.

So that first night, to literally no one’s surprise, I called my parents.

Then I called them the next night.

And the next.

Every single night, I’d go into my room, close the door, call them, and beg them to come pick me up.

I cried.

I pleaded.

I told them I couldn’t do it.

Every night, they held their ground.

They simply said,

“If you come home, we’ll leave.”

Which, at the time, was not exactly the response I was hoping for.

I don’t remember exactly what I said to them.

But I know it probably wasn’t the nicest.

I was scared.

They believed in me.

But in that moment, I couldn’t see that.

All I could see were two people refusing to let me come home when I felt terrified.

Eventually, I hung up the phone.

I went out into the living room, and one of the residential counselors gave me a word puzzle to do. So I felt a little better.

Then, I went to my room and passed out.

I very distinctly remember waking up that next morning, ripping off my eye mask with my eyes half-open, while the sun beamed brightly through my window.

I looked around and thought,

“Where the fuck am I?”

Then my brain caught up.

“Oh…I’m in a fucking residential facility.”

Amazing.

Good morning to me.

That became my morning routine.

For probably my first month, I threatened to leave approximately 8,000 times.

I’m only slightly exaggerating.

And then there were the rules.

I could only talk to my parents for a certain amount of time each day.

I could only see them a few days a week.

I couldn’t call them whenever I wanted.

Apparently, threatening to leave for the 7,943rd time did not earn me an exemption from the rules.

At the time, I hated those rules.

Looking back…

They were exactly what I needed.

Every time I wanted someone to rescue me…

I had to stay.

Every time I wanted certainty…

I had to live without it.

Every fear still felt enormous.

Every day still felt exhausting.

Treatment definitely wasn’t boring.

But somewhere in the middle of all of that…

Without even realizing it…

My brain had already started learning.

Part 2C — Maybe They Were Right

For probably my first month, I threatened to leave what felt like 8,000 times.

Then, slowly…

Something started changing.

I started talking more.

And laughing, a lot. I think I just couldn’t believe my life was what is was, so I would laugh and think, “What is happening?”

But I started making friends.

And I realized something that honestly surprised me.

Everyone there was…

Not super insane.

Before treatment, I think I pictured a residential facility the way a lot of people do.

I thought everyone was going to be…

Well…

Crawling on the walls.

Instead, I met some of the greatest people I’ve ever known.

People with careers.

Families.

Dreams.

People who loved books.

People who loved coloring.

People who had incredible senses of humor.

People you would walk past at a store, with nothing appearing to be wrong.

They just happened to be fighting battles you couldn’t see.

For the first time in a long time…

I didn’t feel so alone.

One of the girls, who’s now my best friend, would knock on my door and be like, “Avery, you can’t just sit in here.”

She brought me outside and handed me an ice cube. Then she convinced me to go with her and a few of the patients for dinner.

“I had to go to dinner without my parents?”

“What if I have a panic attack?”

But, I chose to go anyway…(Good choice, Avery).

In-between the little fun moments, treatment continued. The rules continued. The routines continued.

Then one day, something happened that probably wouldn’t mean much to most people.

Both of my parents texted me.

And I forgot to respond.

Not for five minutes.

Not for an hour.

Until the next day.

I remember turning to one of the RCs and saying,

“Look! I forgot to text them back!”

Which, out of context, sounds absolutely ridiculous.

“Congratulations…you ignored your parents?”

But everyone there understood why that mattered.

A month earlier, fifteen minutes without them felt impossible.

Now…

I had been so busy living my own life that I forgot to answer.

That wasn’t me becoming a bad daughter.

That was me getting my life back.

Then something else happened.

The routines started feeling…

Routine.

Sleeping there wasn’t this huge event anymore.

It was just where I slept.

Being away from my parents stopped feeling like an accomplishment.

It became my normal.

I wasn’t waking up every morning thinking,

“Where the fuck am I?”

I already knew.

I was at treatment.

And honestly…

That wasn’t shocking anymore.

Treatment wasn’t boring yet.

But I could feel it heading that direction.

Not because I wasn’t learning.

But because I had started practicing the same fears enough times that they weren’t taking up every second of my day anymore.

That’s the funny thing about recovery.

It doesn’t usually happen all at once.

One day you realize…

You forgot to text your parents back.

And somehow…

That feels like winning the lottery.

Part 3A — Starting to Live Again

Somewhere along the way…

Treatment stopped being the only thing I talked about.

It wasn’t that I stopped doing the work.

If anything, the work got harder.

But my life slowly became about more than anxiety.

Everyone had movie nights.

TV shows we’d all get invested in.

We’d argue over what to watch next.

Oh, we also colored.

A lot.

I think I single-handedly kept Amazon in business with the amount of coloring books, markers, and random activities I ordered.

“Avery, what are all of these coloring books and shit you’re ordering?”, my parents would say. (I had never colored in my life).

But, if I found something I liked…

Everyone else was about to try it too.

I’ve always been like that.

If I love a movie, you now have to watch it.

If I find a good snack…

You’re eating it.

If I discover a new game…

Congratulations.

We’re literally all playing it.

Naturally, that also applied to treatment.

I’d drive to the store and come back with snacks, activities, coloring books…

Basically anything I thought would make the house a little more fun.

The RCs would laugh and tell me,

“Avery…you can’t keep buying things for everyone.”

And I’d basically respond,

“Respectfully…yes I can.”

Or,

“Just eat the damn ice cream, girl.”

Eventually, everyone just accepted that if I came back from the store…

There was probably something in my hands.

And honestly…

Those little moments mattered more than I realized at the time.

Because treatment isn’t twenty-four hours a day of exposures.

It’s life.

You’re living alongside people.

You celebrate birthdays.

You watch movies.

You play games.

You laugh so hard your stomach hurts.

Sometimes five minutes after you’ve been crying.

And I think that’s important to say.

You don’t have to be miserable every second for treatment to be working.

In fact…

I think those moments are part of what makes the hard work possible.

They remind you that you’re still a person.

Not just someone with anxiety.

Not just someone doing exposures.

Just…

A person.

Who also happened to be getting their life back.

And somewhere in between Target runs, movie nights, coloring books, and trying to convince everyone to try whatever I was currently obsessed with…

I realized I wasn’t counting down the hours until I could go home anymore.

I was too busy living where I already was.

Part 2C — We Have a Murder to Solve

I’d done case files a million times before treatment.

So one day I was like,

“Wait…these people would love this.”

Like…

Who wouldn’t?

They’re so fun.

So obviously, I started ordering them.

At night, we’d all sit around the kitchen table trying to solve murder cases together.

And when I say we got into it…

I mean we got into it.

One of the RCs had this incredibly annoying ability to look at the case for approximately five seconds and go,

“Okay, it’s this person.”

And she was right.

Every.

Damn.

Time.

Even the time when she had a headache and was laid up on the couch, she was still invested…Oh, and she was right again.

Meanwhile, I’m sitting there with twenty pages of evidence spread across the table like,

“Girl…give us all a second. We literally haven’t even read every page.”

Can we investigate the murder before you solve the murder?

One night, we even got out a notebook.

We started writing down suspects.

Motives.

Evidence.

Who we thought was lying.

We became invested, you guys.

This was serious.

If someone had walked into the dining room with absolutely no context and saw a bunch of us sitting around a table with crime scene photos, a notebook full of suspects, and several people passionately arguing over who committed a fictional homicide…

They probably would’ve had some questions. They’d probably think we were all patients and wonder where the RCs were.

We looked insane.

Because honestly…

Who wants to solve a murder case right before bed?

Apparently, us.

Most people wind down with a book or watch something relaxing.

We were like,

“Okay, but the husband said he left at 8:30, and that does NOT match the timeline.”

Sweet dreams, everyone.

Sometimes my biggest concern at 7 p.m. was getting everyone to sit down because we had a murder to solve.

And that’s when I stopped thinking about going home. I thought about home all the time.

But, not in the same way. I missed it, of course. But I knew treatment was where I needed to be.

Did I love the exposures?

Absolutely not.

I hated them.

But I loved the people.

And instead of my entire day being miserable, I started realizing that I could enjoy parts of it.

I think that’s incredibly important.

I’m not saying you go into treatment and avoid the work.

I’m not saying every day should be fun or comfortable. If it is, you shouldn’t be there.

Treatment is supposed to challenge you. A lot.

But you’re also allowed to smile.

You’re allowed to make friends.

You’re allowed to laugh until your stomach hurts five minutes after you were crying.

Those moments kept me sane.

And while all of that was happening, something else was happening that I didn’t notice at first.

The exposures that once felt impossible…

Were becoming.

Well,… boring.

Sleeping at the facility stopped feeling like this huge event every night.

It was just…

Where I slept.

Being away from my parents wasn’t something I thought about every second anymore.

It slowly became my new normal.

Driving stopped feeling like an exposure.

It became a way to go get ice cream and …shop…way too much.

Being at treatment stopped feeling like I was surviving every minute.

It just became my life.

I think that’s one of the biggest misconceptions about recovery.

People think progress always feels exciting.

For me, it didn’t always feel that way. There were so many exciting moments, without a doubt. But, more importantly:

It felt repetitive.

It felt ordinary.

And then it felt…

Boring.

And that’s exactly what I had been working toward all along.

Because when the things that once terrified you become ordinary…

Fear starts taking up less space.

Eventually, I wasn’t spending every night wondering when I could go home.

I was already home for the time being.

I hated the exposures.

But I loved the people I got to come back to afterward.

And somewhere between the exposures I hated, the Target runs, the ice cream, and the fictional murder investigations…

Treatment stopped feeling like something I was trapped in.

It became a place where I was getting my life back.

And I think that’s what “boring” really means.

Not that recovery stops changing you.

But that fear finally stops being the most interesting part of your day.

Part 3A — Lets Panic

While we were having movie nights, solving murder cases, and making Target runs…

Treatment was still happening.

Every single day.

And while some things had become boring, what was about to happen was far from boring.

In fact, some of the harder work had not even begun…

Interoceptive exposures.

Before treatment, I didn’t even know they existed.

They’re exercises designed to intentionally bring on physical sensations you’re afraid of—dizziness, a racing heart, feeling out of breath, feeling disconnected—so your brain can slowly learn that those sensations aren’t dangerous.

When I first heard that, I remember thinking,

“Are we so serious right now?”

You want me to purposely make myself dizzy?

On purpose?

As treatment?

Interesting choice.

Every morning, I’d wake up and think,

“Shit…it’s time to panic. Yay me.”

Because who doesn’t want to start their morning knowing they’re probably going to have a few panic attacks that day?

Said no one ever.

Our schedule may as well have looked like:

10:00 a.m. — Let’s go make ourselves dizzy.

11:00 a.m. — Maybe we’ll make our heart race today.

Amazing.

Living the dream.

For years, I had spent so much energy trying to avoid panic attacks.

Now I was intentionally practicing the exact sensations I’d spent years running from.

So yes…

At first, I fought the RCs a little.

I fought the therapists a bit too.

Sometimes a little extra when I was having a really bad day.

Not in some dramatic, throwing-a-chair kind of way.

Part 3B — The Airbnb

Toward the end of treatment, I transitioned back to partial hospitalization.

This time, I wasn’t sleeping at the facility anymore.

I was staying by myself in an Airbnb.

Which, a few months earlier, would’ve sounded absolutely impossible.

Remember…

I couldn’t even tolerate being fifteen minutes away from my parents.

And that was with a house full of support.

With therapists.

With RCs.

With other patients.

With professionals all around me.

Now I was supposed to sleep by myself in an Airbnb.

Yeah…

That felt like quite the jump.

I remember sitting on the bench outside the facility.

I’d just gotten off the phone with my mom.

There were a few RCs outside talking with me.

I kept saying,

“I can’t do this.”

Then one RC jumped in.

She didn’t sugarcoat it.

She told it exactly how it was.

Which, honestly, was exactly what I needed.

She looked at me and said,

“Avery…you’re going to that Airbnb.”

Not in a harsh way.

In a confident way.

Like there wasn’t another option.

Like she believed I was capable of doing something that I still couldn’t see in myself.

I told her I couldn’t do it.

She knew I was scared.

Everyone did.

But she wasn’t going to let anxiety make the decision for me.

Looking back…

I’m so grateful she didn’t.

If you’re reading this…

Thank you.

You quite literally saved me that night.

Because I really think I would’ve left treatment.

Instead, you gave me the push I needed to keep going.

That evening, I drove to the Airbnb with a few friends from the facility.

We grabbed dinner together.

Then they came back to the Airbnb and hung out with me for a little while.

Eventually, they left.

And for the first time…

I was alone.

I looked around the Airbnb thinking,

“Well…here we go.”

I was anxious.

I noticed every little sound.

My brain still had plenty to say.

But I stayed.

Eventually, I fell asleep.

The next morning, I opened my eyes and my first thought was,

“I did it.”

Nothing dramatic had happened.

I had simply made it through the night.

Then I did it again.

And again.

Eventually, being alone stopped feeling like something I dreaded because of anxiety.

My thoughts changed.

Instead of,

“I don’t want to be alone because I’m scared.”

They became,

“I’m bored. I want to go hang out with my friends.”

That may sound like a small difference.

It wasn’t.

One thought was driven by fear.

The other was driven by connection.

I wasn’t avoiding being alone anymore.

I just genuinely enjoyed being around the people I’d come to love.

That’s a completely different reason.

And that’s what I mean when I say recovery got boring.

Sleeping alone stopped being this huge accomplishment.

It just became…

Where I slept.

Being alone stopped feeling dangerous.

It just became another ordinary part of my day.

The Airbnb wasn’t the end of treatment.

It was the first place where I realized everything I had practiced inside the facility could come with me outside of it.

That was one of the biggest victories of all.

Part 3C — The Last Week of Treatment

By my last week, something funny had happened.

Treatment had become…

Routine.

After 101 days, the schedule felt repetitive. Very repetitive.

Wake up.

Breakfast.

Morning group.

Exposure block.

Lunch.

Afternoon group.

More exposures.

Dinner.

Do it all again tomorrow.

Recovery wasn’t boring because I wasn’t learning anymore.

It was boring because I had practiced these skills over and over again.

It was time to take them home.

Most of the people in the building were around my age; the RCs, patients, etc.

Eventually, they all started feeling like a bunch of siblings. Nobody was excluded. Literally all of them.

The kind you love to death…

But want to lose your mind over sometimes.

It wasn’t because they were doing anything wrong.

Quite the opposite.

They cared.

They checked in on me.

They made sure I was alright.

They did exactly what they were supposed to do.

I was just burnt out.

I remember one day my POTS was flaring really badly.

I was exhausted.

Mentally.

Physically.

Emotionally.

The RCs would call my name from across the room.

“Avery…”

A few minutes later…

“Avery…”

Again.

And internally I’d think,

“I’m going to lose my mind if I don’t leave.”

I think after 101 days, my brain had reached the point where it was saying,

“Guys…I know. I promise. I’ve got it.”

Looking back, I almost think my body knew it was time.

Not because treatment ends the moment you walk out the door.

It doesn’t.

If anything, that’s when the real work begins.

But I was ready to start living without constant reminders of what I already knew how to do.

The RCs weren’t the problem.

The patients weren’t the problem.

I had just reached the point where the background noise of treatment had become…

Background noise.

And no matter how much I loved the RCs, I knew deep down, I didn’t need them anymore. I knew I’d miss them, but in a different way. Not in a, “Help me” kind of way, just in a “Let’s watch a movie. I’m bored.” kind of way.

Ironically, I think that was one of the biggest signs that treatment had worked.

At the beginning, I needed someone beside me almost every minute.

By the end, I didn’t need someone telling me how to respond to anxiety.

I already knew.

I just had to go prove to myself that I could keep doing it on my own.

And despite all of that…

Despite joking that everyone was driving me crazy…

The only reason I didn’t want to leave was because of them.

No matter how much the house occasionally felt like a home full of siblings…

I wasn’t ready to say goodbye.

Part 4A: Goodbye, everyone. Thank you. For everything.

Here came the goodbyes.

Which was ironic, considering I had just spent the last week feeling like everyone was getting on my nerves.

I was tired, burnt out, overstimulated, and very ready to not have people constantly around me.

But apparently, being annoyed with people and being ready to say goodbye to them are two very different things.

At one point, I was sitting on the couch talking to a guy who was still pretty new to treatment.

He asked me,

“So, how long have you been here for?”

I hesitated for a second.

“Fourteen weeks.”

Then he asked me,

“Does it actually get better?”

I smiled.

“It does get better.”

“This place saved my life.”

And hearing those words come out of my own mouth felt almost surreal.

Because during my first week, I was the person asking that exact question.

And whenever someone who had been there longer told me that it got better, I remember thinking,

“Yeah…but it got better for you.”

In my head, their recovery was somehow different from mine.

Treatment worked for them.

They could get better.

They could eventually feel okay being there.

But me?

I was convinced I was somehow going to be the exception.

I could listen to people tell me over and over again that it gets easier, and there was still this part of my brain thinking,

“That’s great for you, but it’s never going to feel that way for me.”

And now, fourteen weeks later, I was sitting on the other side of that conversation.

I was the person looking at someone who had just arrived and saying,

“It does get better.”

Not because someone had told me to say it.

Not because I was trying to convince him.

Because I knew it did.

I had lived it.

And for a second, I think I realized just how far I had come.

Then, it was time for me to say a few goodbyes.

And that’s when it hit me.

I’m weird with goodbyes because I usually don’t process them in the moment. I can hug someone, say goodbye, walk away, and act completely normal.

Then a few minutes later, my brain catches up.

“Oh.”

“That was goodbye.”

So I went inside, laid my head on the pillow of the couch, and cried for about an hour straight.

At that point, I didn’t care who saw me.

I didn’t care what anyone thought.

I didn’t want anyone to try and fix it.

I just wanted to lay there.

I had spent fourteen weeks barely letting anyone see me cry, and suddenly all of it was coming out at once.

Eventually, I got up, grabbed my stuff, and started packing up for the day.

Still crying.

One of the RCs walked over like,

“Heyyyyy!”

Then she looked at me and immediately went,

“Oh…”

Which honestly makes me laugh now.

I think everyone was expecting my usual silly, laughing self.

Instead, my eyes were puffy, tears were rolling down my face, and I was just trying to pack up my stuff.

I had spent my last week feeling exhausted, overstimulated, and completely ready to be done.

And I was.

I was ready to leave treatment.

I just wasn’t ready to leave them.

That was the part I hadn’t prepared for.

After fourteen weeks of learning how to let go of fear, I had to learn how to let go of the people who helped me get there.

Part 4B — Four Weeks Later

A month after ending treatment, I have realized something.

I spent this entire blog talking about how recovery got boring.

How the fears became ordinary.

How the exposures became repetitive.

How the things that once felt impossible slowly became part of everyday life.

And they did.

But just when I thought everything eventually became ordinary…

I realized there was one thing that never did.

The people.

Being around them never became ordinary.

It never became boring.

I don’t think it ever would have.

Even a month later, there isn’t a day that goes by where I don’t think about everyone.

Sometimes I’ll catch myself wondering,

“I wonder what everyone’s up to today.”

“I wonder if the patients and RCs are doing a case file”

“I wonder if the patients are enjoying coloring as much as I did and are using the coloring sets I bought for the facility.”

“I wonder if ____ had a good birthday.”

Or I’ll see something and immediately think,

“____, look at this animal I saw today. You would’ve loved it.”

“____, guess what? I went vegetarian again.”

“____, I just finished this book, and I know you’d absolutely love it.”

“____, I found this thrift shop you’d loveeee.”

“____, I’m learning how to crochet! Look what I bought.”

“____, I bought Mexican Train for my family. I couldn’t stop thinking about all of us playing it together.”

“____, I finally bought the lip gloss. You were right, girl…it’s amazinggggg.”

“____, what are you getting done on your nails next time you go? I wanna see pictures like you used to show me at the facility.”

“____, there’s a new horror documentary you have to watch. It reminds me so much of *Don’t Fk With Cats*—the one we watched.”**

“____, did you ever finish Uptown Girls? Did you like the ending?”

“Guys…you all have to try this new ice cream I found.”

Then I remember…

Those are just thoughts in my head.

I can’t reach out.

I can’t tell them.

And I think that’s the hardest part.

But I think about them differently now.

Not in an “I need them” kind of way.