Hey. I almost started this with something poetic and heavy, but let’s be honest—this feels more like a comedy special with the lights dimmed.
A spotlight.
A mic stand.
And me squinting into the crowd wondering, “You all brought snacks, right?”
🍮 Quick Headlines
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I had a mental health breakdown.
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I had several mental health breakthroughs.
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And then my stubborn kidney finally said, “Nope. I’m done.”
That’s the short version. The longer version is what we’ll spend the next seven posts unpacking.
For now, consider this the overture—the intro riff, the part where the curtain rises and you realize: this show is not going to be subtle.
No snacks? That’s okay. But snacks are now part of the ritual.
Pudding this week. Chocolate-dipped graham crackers next.
And yes—I’ll be checking.
🍮 Pudding Diplomacy and the Laugh That Saved Me (Mental Health Recovery)
During my mental health recovery, finding humor became a lifeline — even small joys like pudding helped me cope with trauma and stay resilient in the hospital.
One of the strangest things about being hospitalized is how often you find yourself negotiating with people who have the upper hand. They hold the meds. They hold the charts. They hold your fate. You, meanwhile, are holding a flimsy paper gown closed with one hand and your dignity with the other.
So picture this: I’m lying there, freshly dosed with pain meds, low-key terrified my stomach is going to rebel. In a flash of logic that felt like survival instinct, I ask the nurse for pudding. Because pudding is safe. Pudding is soft. Pudding is what love would look like if it came in a cafeteria cup.
He deadpans back, “No. Not until the surgeon says so.”
And I, in all my medicated glory, glare up at him and say:
“Alright. But if I throw up, it’s on you. Possibly literally.”
The ultrasound tech, who’d been silently preparing her machine, snorted so hard she almost dropped the gel. And that snort—it cracked something in me. A laugh escaped my own chest, weak and fragile but real. That tiny laugh was like an emergency exit sign blinking on in a burning building. It reminded me that humor was still in here with me, even when hope felt scarce.
I clung to that laugh. I banked it for the long nights.
💭 So… What the Hell Happened? (Trauma Recovery & Complex PTSD)
In the middle of breaking down, I experienced several trauma recovery breakthroughs, learning firsthand how complex PTSD can affect both mind and body.
I’ll get into the details in future posts, but here’s the bird’s-eye view:
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I hit a mental health edge sharp enough that “edge” felt like an understatement.
Breakdown sounds dramatic—but it was really a full-body refusal to keep going as-is. -
In the middle of breaking, I also broke open.
Breakthroughs came, not in glittering epiphanies, but in sweaty, tear-streaked truths I couldn’t ignore anymore. -
My body staged a walkout.
The kidney—stubborn, scarred, overworked—clocked out and left me holding the bag. (Literally: nephrostomy bag.)
That’s the nutshell version. More to come in the saga episodes—medical chaos, grief, faith, humor.
Each one deserves its own stage time.
🌱 Why I’m Sharing This (Hospital Experience & Chronic Illness Journey)
Writing this post is part of my ongoing mental health journey, showing that even in the chaos of hospital experiences and chronic illness, laughter and small victories matter.
This isn’t about reliving the pain. It’s about proof of life.
It’s for anyone who’s been hovering on their own edge, quietly wondering if the curtain will ever rise again.
This blog is a way to say: it can.
Maybe not all at once. Maybe not in the way you imagined.
But if you’re here—still breathing—there’s still time for an encore.
😂 Another Laugh I Didn’t Expect
In inpatient, one of the rules was that they took away our razors. Safety first, of course. But here’s the thing: no razors + long hospital days = some of us growing enough leg hair to braid.
And yes—we actually talked about it.
I remember sitting there with another patient, both of us looking down at our legs like:
“Well… guess we’re starting a biker gang or maybe a Renaissance fair troupe?”
We laughed—the kind of laugh that’s half surrender, half solidarity.
And yet—it mattered. It said:
We’re both still here.
Still ridiculous.
Still alive.
That’s the thing no one tells you about the brink: sometimes it isn’t epic.
Sometimes it’s pudding negotiations and leg-hair braids.
⚖️ The Heaviness
Here’s the part that wasn’t funny at all: there was a night when everything in me felt heavy.
Not tired. Not sad. Heavy.
It was the kind of heaviness that whispers:
“You can’t keep living like this.”
And in that moment, the choices looked stark:
Exit stage left, permanently—or step into something radical, messy, uncertain: inpatient care.
I wish I could say it was noble. That I marched myself in like Joan of Arc on a healing crusade.
In reality, it was a tiny, trembling decision:
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Picking up the phone.
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Filling out an intake form.
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Agreeing to sit in a waiting room when all I wanted was to disappear.
It didn’t feel brave.
It felt pathetic.
But pathetic still breathes.
Pathetic still gets another shot.
And pathetic, it turns out, was enough to keep me alive.
✋ What Saved Me in the Small Moments
The brink doesn’t get defeated in one big speech.
It gets softened in tiny human things:
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A nurse who brings you a warm blanket without being asked.
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The patient who makes you laugh about braiding leg hair.
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A doctor who admits softly, “This is going to be hard, but I’ll be here.”
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An ultrasound tech who snorts at your pudding threat.
Those moments are like handholds in a cliff face.
They don’t fix the climb. But they keep you from falling.
🎶 What This Post Is For (and What the Series Will Be)
This post is the overture.
The confetti cannon that doesn’t blow the whole story.
Just the taste-test before the seven-course meal.
Here’s the set-list you can expect:
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Medical Chaos & Surrender — the kidney saga in all its absurd, body-hijacking detail.
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Grief Has No Calendar—But She Did Take My Dog — the softness and devastation of losing Samantha.
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Yes, I’m Still Healing. No, It’s Not Linear. — the truths of trauma recovery no one wants to admit.
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Things I’ve Yelled at God (And What He Whispered Back).
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I’m Allowed to Laugh While I’m Breaking. — on comedy as survival.
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This Blog Is My Resurrection. — the mic drop.
This first post?
It’s just the soundcheck.
💗 Gratitude, With Crumbs on My Shirt
If you’re reading this, thank you.
Even clicking on this counts as company.
If you’ve been checking in, sending snacks, praying, or just quietly rooting for me—I see you.
I’m grateful.
Here’s what I ask in return:
Be kind to yourself.
Especially if you’re the kind of person who reads blogs like mine—half for the humor, half for the survival instructions.
You don’t need to be noble.
You don’t need to have it all together.
You’re allowed to be inconveniently human.
💕 Before You Go
If this post resonated, drop a comment or share it with someone who might need a laugh between the breakdowns.
Next week, we’re diving into Medical Chaos & Surrender — the kidney saga you didn’t know you needed.
Bring your snack. It’s going to be real, messy, and a little funny.
🍫 Snack Call for Next Week
Next week’s snack: pudding is taken—so we’re leveling up to chocolate-dipped graham crackers.
Crunch + comfort.
Bring a sleeve.
Bring two.
Dunk one for the story, keep the other for your stubborn heart.
🎭 Closing Ritual
I nearly left the stage.
I didn’t.
For now, I’m standing here with crumbs on my shirt and a story in my pocket.
Let’s do this one post at a time.
Curtain rises next week.
Bring the crackers.
—EK 💕
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