Day 121 — Walls without Concrete
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I woke up this morning with the same question that’s been echoing in my head for months: “Will I ever really get my mind back?” I spent so long trapped in a tiny space—physically in that RV, but more so in the relentless confines of my own thoughts. Each day felt like it dragged on forever, haunted by cyclical fears and memories. Crawling out of that isolation wasn’t just learning to walk on a shattered ankle—it was learning how to exist all over again.
Yesterday, I watched a documentary on the Stanford Prison Experiment—probably not the wisest choice for someone who’s endured extreme isolation. But I keep searching for any parallel, any research, any voice that can mirror what I went through. In talking to a friend afterward, she mentioned how people with complex PTSD can sometimes bounce back quicker than those who’ve been through prolonged isolation. It’s not about minimizing anyone else’s trauma; it just underscores how disorienting it can be to live in a world the size of a couch for months on end.
During that time, hope became my lifeline. I convinced myself that making it back to my friend would be my ticket out of my mind’s own prison—like reuniting with them would somehow free me from the loop I was stuck in. When reality fell short, I drowned my disappointment at the bar. It took a long time to see I needed real help—help that finally showed up after I found my way back home.
Even now, 121 days into a sobriety I once thought was impossible, I still question whether I can explain any of this in a way people truly understand. I may never get the chance to tell that friend how deeply their spark of kindness kept me from giving up. Maybe I don’t have to. Because, in the midst of all this, I’ve learned something crucial: love and survival aren’t neat or tidy. They can be messy, riddled with confusion, and steeped in regret. Yet here I stand—sober, waking up each day, and trying to reconcile who I was in that RV with who I’m becoming.
I used to think only concrete walls could cage a person, but I’ve come to realize:
“Not all walls are made of concrete. Sometimes, they’re made of memories and what-ifs.”
I lived behind those walls for so long. But day by day, I’m finding that each breath, each new morning, is a tiny victory. One that balances remembering what nearly broke me with celebrating what still keeps me going.
Here’s to Day 121. Here’s to letting myself heal—even if it’s not pretty, even if it takes a while, and even if I never fully get my old mind back. Some part of me feels it’s okay—because maybe, just maybe, the mind I’m building now is the one I was supposed to have all along.
Day 121
One Step. One Punch. One Round. 🌹
—Your Fellow Traveler