Journaling Helps... Give It A Try!

YOUR STORY ISN'T OVER YET!

Mental health journal for the person who is in recovery, practicing self-care or just needs to express themselves. A great gift for the Mental Health Warriors! Pour out your thoughts and feelings and in reflection, see the progress you are making on your unique journey. "Your Story Isn't Over Yet" is printed across the cover.
Swirling shapes, colors and overlapping lines create a meditative rhythm that can lift your spirits — like stained glass caught in a slow tide. The teals and purples in the semi-colon embedded at the center represent suicide awareness, Can you see it? Click here to see in my web store!

Important: The semicolon (;) symbolizes mental health awareness, suicide prevention, and the continuation of life, representing a sentence the author could have ended but chose not to. Popularized by Project Semicolon, it signifies that the wearer's story is not over, highlighting strength in battling depression, addiction, and self-harm. This is a good way to start that "awkward" conversation for someone who is struggling. A portion of the profits for this item goes to the 988 Crisis Line.

This hardcover journal carries a calm, artful presence—hand-painted swirls of bold colors and a teal and purple semi-colon weave across a matte cover while a gentle message peeks through the design. It opens flat thanks to case-wrap binding and 150 lined pages give you space for daily notes, reflections, or unfolding ideas. The perforated sheets let you share a page without fuss. Light, durable, and quietly expressive, it slips into a bag for a coffee shop session or waits on your nightstand for late-night thoughts.

Growing Popcorn

 When I was around eight years old, I learned about the process plants go through when they grow from a seed. I did little experiments to see how they grew under different conditions. I placed seeds in clear containers... some with just wet paper towels, some with rocks, some with sand, some in nothing but water, and some with soil. I was able to watch the growth process and learned hands on what worked and made a plant grow. I was fascinated with seeing the seeds break open and watching the roots come out and begin to stretch themselves out and take hold. Of course, some of them only grew to a certain point. The ones that I placed on wet paper towels opened and branched out, but not having soil to expand into, they died. But not before I got a really good look at the beginning of the growth process. It was one of the most beautiful things I had ever seen.

My mom had a garden in the back yard and I started helping her tend to it. I learned to spot weeds, when it needed watering and so on. I decided to plant something of my own. I didn’t have any seeds or seedlings from my experiments left, so I decided to ask my mom for some seeds. I didn’t care what they were, I just wanted to make something grow. She promised that the next trip into town, we would pick me up some flower seeds that I could plant along the front walk leading to our front door. I didn’t have much in the way of patience back then. I didn’t want to wait a few days... Then I thought of it! Every week, we had family movie night and we made popcorn to go with it! SEEDS!! I asked my mom if they would grow and she said she didn’t think so, but we could find out. She pulled the big bag of popcorn kernels out of the freezer and gave me a handful.

Feeling victorious, I ran outside, grabbed a trowel and the watering can and got my hands in the dirt. I was going to make something grow! In my mind, we would have popcorn for life! I carefully planted the seeds along the walkway and gave them a nice dousing of water. I knew it would be a few days before they pushed their way through the soil, so I went out and checked them each morning. Finally, they sprouted! I ran and got my mom and showed her, she smiled broadly and said I’d done a good job. I was so very proud and began planning my future as a farmer.

A few days went by and I walked out to see my crop, and found that the plants had been cut back! I called my mom out to the front yard and said something had happened to my plants. She looked at them and pointed out that they were still alive and growing. I asked her what happened to them, and she told me that my dad probably cut them, not knowing what they were. I realized that we hadn’t told him about my project, so I would have to let him know.

Then I forgot to tell him. A few more days later, I woke up to the faint sound of the lawnmower running. MY POPCORN!! I jumped out of bed and ran outside just in time to see my dad run over my crop... and he was going for the gusto! He ran back and forth over them and he looked determined and downright vindictive about it. I literally screamed on horror! “DADDY STOP!!”

He looked up at me in surprise and turned off the mower. In tears, I ran down the steps and over to where he stood and fell to my knees and ran my hands over my butchered plants. My father’s surprise dissolved into confusion and concern.

“What’s wrong babygirl?” he asked.

I tearfully answered, “You killed my popcorn!”.

“What?”

“You ran over my popcorn plants with the mower!” I pointed to where they were planted.

“Popcorn? I’m sorry babygirl! I thought they were weeds!” I looked up at him and saw pure guilt on his face. He was mortified. “I didn’t know. I never would have run over them if I’d known.” He knelt down next to me and looked at the mutilated plants. “I’m so sorry.” He hugged me and wiped the tears off my face.

“I forgot to tell you,” I sniffled. He hugged me again and offered to buy me some flower seeds to plant along the walk and assured me that he wouldn’t harm them in any way. I planted marigolds and zinnias, and I planted more popcorn in my mom’s garden... Those were the first and last plants I would ever grow successfully. I have the proverbial black thumb. I can’t even keep a cactus alive. I had one for two weeks and it died. I even tell people not to give me plants because it’s not fair to the innocent plant.

Many years later, I would be diagnosed with my mental disorders. It was something else I didn’t tell my dad. I didn’t tell my mom either. Not right away. I had gotten into the habit of only telling them what they wanted to hear. Since I didn’t understand my disorders, I didn’t talk about them. As I discovered who I am, both in the realm of my mental illness and outside of it, it got harder to tell them what was going on with me. Since I didn’t tell them how much I had fallen apart, they didn’t know what not to say or do as I was going through the painstaking process of putting myself back together. They said a lot of wrong things, completely not knowing that it was hurtful and even set me back in my recovery. The more they hurt me, the more that I kept from them. I was literally fighting for my life, and they didn’t know it. My point, and I do have one, is that you can’t expect people to know the things that you don’t tell them. In the years since, I have tried to tell them more about who I am, and my relationship with them is a struggle towards open communication, but there is so much they still don’t understand because I didn't opt to bring them along on my journey. As a result, they will always only have part of the picture.

People who care about you will say the exact wrong thing at the exact wrong time and it is painful. But do they have all the information? I barely spoke to my parents for several years BECAUSE they didn’t have all the facts. When it comes to your recovery or anything important or life-changing, talk about it. There are people you love who are only working with small pieces of information, and don’t have the whole picture. The new flowers you are planting haven’t grown into something others fully recognize, and might look foreign to them. Tell your story. Advocate for yourself. Your path is your own, and it’s unique to you... so just don’t let anyone run over it with a lawnmower.

Suicide Prevention and Awareness Supporter's 40oz Tumbler

 

This suicide prevention and awareness themed tumbler serves as a meaningful mental

health awareness gift, featuring a vibrant colorful abstract design on a large 40oz

thermal insulated vacuum travel mug. Show support with drinkware that combines practical

functionality with purposeful symbolism, showcasing a bold wraparound pattern with

teal-and-purple awareness ribbons that honor advocacy and compassion."It's Okay if you feel broken. I have tape and glue" is printed on bottom half of cup. The

teals and purples represent suicide awareness, along with the semi-colon that is embedded

in the design. Can you find it? 

Important: The semicolon (;) symbolizes mental health awareness, suicide prevention, and

the continuation of life, representing a sentence the author could have ended but chose not

to. Popularized by Project Semicolon, it signifies that the wearer's story is not over, high-

lighting strength in battling depression, addiction, and self-harm. This is a good way to start

that "awkward" conversation for someone who is struggling. The profits from the sale of this

item goes to support The 988 Suicide and Crisis Lifeline.

To shop this item online, click here or any of the above images of the travel mug.

My Guiding Light On My Recovery Journey: Enter Delilah!

The beginning of my recovery was the culmination of many things. I had gotten tired of trying to die, my husband (who was and is the great love of my life) and I separated and I needed to learn to take care of myself. It crossed my mind that at some point in the future, my daughter would come back into my life, and I needed to be able to be there for her. And I had arrived at rock bottom. My survival instinct had kicked in and I was ready to face myself and take responsibility for what my life was, as well as what it was going to be. After my 8th suicide attempt, I had finally started to consider getting better rather than absolute surrender to the darkness and that’s when I met Delilah.  

When I left the hospital, I had gotten a referral to Red Rock Behavioral Health Services. I wasn’t really sure what they could do to help me. I figured it would be all pills and head shrinking. I went there at the appointed time, on the appointed date to meet with some chick named Delilah. I expected her to be some worn out social worker who would spew slogans and catchphrases at me and tell me how strong I really am. Imagine my surprise when I met her and she grinned from ear to ear, introduced herself, and then said, “I’m here to help you in any way that I can.” She’s a short plump ball of pleasantry, and I had this immediate feeling that things really were about to get better... but I tried to rein that feeling in because I didn’t want to be disappointed. She was a symbol of a fresh start, and I wasn’t sure that I had another fresh start in me.  

We went to her office, which was a warm and cheerful place... it was a direct reflection of who she is. I sat down on the VERY comfortable sofa and took a deep breath. So, it begins... “recovery”. I didn’t even know what that meant. Fortunately, Delilah did. She explained to me that she would be my case manager and help me navigate the process of getting back on my feet. She explained that while she would provide me with resources, it would be my responsibility to use them. I didn’t expect that. I thought she was supposed to fix me! How could I possibly be responsible for my own recovery? It couldn’t keep a cactus alive! It suddenly seemed to me that this was going to be like the band playing on as the Titanic sank. 

Then she did something that I never saw coming. She asked me what my goals were. I told her that I wanted to be okay and not have this constant misery and fear screaming through my head at all times. She said, “So you want a sense of good wellbeing.” YES! That was it! I wasn’t operating under the idea that everything had to be happy all the time, I just wanted to be okay when it wasn’t. 

 She talked to me for over an hour, walking me through the process of not only reaching my goals, but establishing what those goals were. She had me rank those goals in order of importance, which I did, and instead of throwing me into the deep end of the wellness pool, she guided me to the shallow end.  

I had already visited the med clinic and had several prescriptions. I hadn’t felt a difference yet, but I was hopeful. She told me that getting the right meds would probably take a while and advised me to be completely honest about how I was feeling physically and mentally when talking to my prescriber. I felt a pang of disappointment that I wouldn’t be cured immediately by meds, but I knew from talking to Delilah, it was going to take more than pills and platitudes for me to have a better sense of wellbeing. “Wellbeing”. That was her word. Not “fix”, “cure” or “happy”. I was going to find my own way; she was there as a combination of a coach and cheerleader. The game was mine to play.  

About a year after my first visit with her, I was living on a friend's couch, still looking for the right meds, and wondering if I was kidding myself. The final suicide attempt had happened a few months prior, and triggered a change in the approach to my meds. Suddenly there was a small change... I didn’t want to die, and my brain wasn’t screaming like it used to. I gradually stopped falling completely apart at every little thing. The meds started working. Now I just needed to start on creating a life for myself. I needed to learn how to live and thrive even though I had disorders. I needed to learn to manage my life. Delilah had suggested that I start going to support groups at Red Rock so I could gain an understanding of how my mind worked... or sometimes didn’t. I joined three groups and was at Red Rock 3 times a week. It helped, but I needed more, and I knew it.  

Then Delilah asked me if I would be interested in moving into Red Rock’s housing program. It was temporary housing that was there to help people get back on their feet. I knew I needed to learn to take care of myself on a mental level, and I didn’t quite know where to start. Red Rock’s housing program would help. I would learn to function with my disorders, learn basic life skills, establish boundaries, and learn to take care of my whole self- mind, body, and spirit. I got on the waiting list and then did the only thing I could at that time...I waited.  

While I was waiting, one piece of drama after another cropped up. I was handling most of them well, except for one... I missed my husband and the security he provided. On one occasion I called him and left him a voicemail tearfully telling him that I missed him and wanted him back. My living situation was not great at that point, and I called him out of pure desperation. After I did that. Something unique happened... I regretted the call. I wasn’t above begging before then, but all of a sudden, I was upset with myself for having done it. I decided to tell Delilah about it. When I told her, she got annoyed. “Girl, you better call him and take all that back right now! The reason you regret it is because you have found your sense of dignity! Call him now!” I was so stunned that I did exactly that. I got his voicemail and told him, “I want to apologize to you for my last call. It wasn’t fair to you or me. I am going to be okay on my own one way or another. I just wanted to let you know, and I am sorry... for all of it.” When I hung up, I looked at Delilah and she was smiling. I asked her what she was grinning about and she said, “You are making progress.” I stared at her like she had lost her mind. “How was me begging him to love me again progress?” She calmly replied, “I didn’t have to tell you what to say. You knew what needed to be said. You knew what was healthy for you and what wasn’t. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have even brought it up.” The end result of my calling him back was that he became open to talking to me again now that I wasn't putting all my woes in his lap to deal with. A few weeks later, we literally started “dating”, and would eventually become roommates as I continued on my own path of recovery. After a couple of years, we fully reunited because we had become a team rather than two people wrapped in a viscous codependent cycle with no end in sight. 

Delilah made it a habit to sneakily point out my progress. She didn’t do anything FOR me. She just showed me different directions and let me walk down the path I chose. It wouldn’t be until years later that I would realize that she was one of the people God put in my path at the exact right time. She was the one who told me about the Peer Recovery Support Specialist program, where I could help people on their journey. She mentioned it to me casually...and it stuck. Seven years later I would go into the training for it and successfully get my state certification. That eventually lead to me getting my behavioral health case manager certification as well. 

I once said that Delilah gave me a future. She replied, “No. You did that. I just told you about the resources available to you and you acted on them. Always remember that your recovery is in your hands, and no one else’s”. She was my case manager and became my mentor. I found myself wanting to be like her. She lives a life in service to others, and not many people can do that and keep it balanced. She does it with grace and dignity. It’s my goal to be like her, while still being myself and walking this path that is my life. She genuinely doesn’t know how inspirational she is to me. So, this is me, telling the world that Delilah Grayson didn’t save my life, but she helped me reclaim it. And it’s good. 

  

Hello... An Introduction to my Journey...

Hello.

Have I ever told you about the time I went blind and doctors tried to kill me?

    When I was 7 years old, I took it upon myself to disregard every adult's rules for safety and cross an 8-lane highway to get to Kmart so I could buy myself a Barbie doll. Suffice it to say that I ended up being hit by a motorcycle. I don't remember much from that accident, but I ended up with a broken leg and concussion... as I was being wheeled into the hospital the doctors and nurses were a blur and I was crying for my mommy, who had been called away from work and was with me. I was screaming that I couldn't see... then the doctor said something that over-rode that fear and made me start fighting for my life. He said, "We are going to have to put her to sleep". My only frame of reference for those words were from when adults had used them regarding euthanizing the family pet. I started screaming, "THEY'RE GOING TO KILL ME!! MOMMY HELP!! DON'T LET THEM KILL ME!!" I began to fight them with everything I had. It took several doctors and nurses to hold me down...Then I felt a needle go in and I was out after that.

Less than 10 years later I experienced trauma that triggered the start of my depression, anxiety and PTSD. I knew I had problems controlling my feelings and thoughts, but I couldn't bring myself to say there was something "wrong" with me because of the stigma that carried at the time.. some of which still exists today. I associated mental illness with serial killers and the people in One Flew Over The Coo-coo's Nest. I lived in that misery for 23 years. All of my relationships, old and new, suffered and many ended. I lost my daughter, had two disastrous marriages and nearly ended a third... I felt so broken and alone, I decided to end my misery with a couple of handfuls of pills....

I have attempted to kill myself 9 times. I am proud to say that I am a failure at death. From 1988 at the age of 16 until 2013 I lived with undiagnosed mental health disorders that made me lose hope, lose family and friends, and lose any sense of my righteous mind.

Then, the last time I was hospitalized, I remembered that accident... and I wondered what had happened to the little 40-pound girl who fought for her life so hard that she had to be held down by 6 adults just for an injection? Had she died? Or was she just hiding? She was real... but where had she gone? At what point had everything gotten so bad that I had completely abandoned her?... That was when I decided to fight for my life instead of against it. That was the day I finally asked my doctor what I had been diagnosed with. He gave all that agony a name, and with it came resources to help me fight, and literally get a life!

Hello. My name is Abanna Cheshire... and I am in long term, active and sustained recovery for several mental illnesses and substance use.

My Dad and Me

I was born a mama’s girl. My mom and I had always been close (for the most part). My Dad is another story. I always tried to establish that same connection with my dad. Don’t get me wrong. He loves me and we have a great relationship, but I was always reaching for the same kind of bond that I had with my mom. My dad taught me all kinds of things. When I was 8 years old, I asked him to show me how to play basketball, which is his favorite sport. He gladly took me to the basketball court several days a week after his morning jog. It didn’t take me long to learn the mechanics of shooting the ball, and dribbling took some work, but I got there too. He was so pleased with me, and I relished his praise. I have mentioned before that my parents were missionaries. For a couple of years we lived on the little island of Dominica. My father was a church planter... starting new churches was his specialty. There was a little village a couple of hours away from our home called Boetica. My mom, sister and I didn’t like making the trip there each week. It was hot, humid and a long ride. My dad was soon making the trips by himself. Over time, I started feeling bad about him going alone, so I volunteered to go with him sometimes. He was thrilled and I was getting my dad all to myself for a few hours. I didn’t like the trip, but I liked the company. One Sunday, my dad and I were invited to lunch after church by a church member and his family. My dad gladly accepted. My father, knowing what a picky eater I am, quietly told me that we would be guests in their home and refusing their food would be insulting and in poor taste (no pun intended). He told me to eat what was put in front of me without complaint. I said, “Okay” and braced myself for something like fish heads or something equally scary. When we sat down for the meal, I thought I was ready for anything. But what appeared on the table was beyond my imagination. There were tiny little fish, just a little bit bigger than a grain of rice, called titiwi... which means “tiny fish”. There were thousands of them... I could see their little tiny eyes, which looked like specks of black pepper...they looked like maggots with eyes. I took one look, turned to my father and said as quietly and firmly as I could, “DADDY! I AM NOT GOING TO EAT THAT!” My dad loves telling that story now. He thinks it’s hilarious. My memory of it isn’t laced with laughter however. I remember the look on his face...My dad gave me a look that I will never forget. It was a combination of embarrassment and anger. On the way home he chastised me for insulting our hosts, being a snob and an “ugly American”. I never went on another one of those trips with him again. He doesn’t remember that part. I was heartbroken that I had disappointed him and I figured the best way to keep that from happening again was to keep my distance. But it didn’t stop my craving to be close to him. I found myself hanging on my father’s every word, especially when he was talking directly to me. I harvested his wisdom every chance I got. I talk about my dad a lot when I am discussing my recovery, because those words that meant so much back then, have given me a new understanding of things now. This has led me to a realization... I had exactly the right relationship with my dad. It was how it was supposed to be. You see, if I’d had the tighter bond with him, like the one I had with my mother, I wouldn’t have hung on his every word. I wouldn’t have absorbed the wisdom and reason he bestowed on me. It would have just been words. On a few occasions my dad’s words have saved my life, some friendships and my sanity. My relationship with him is solid now. I take great pleasure in telling him how things he said to me in my youth, have shaped my present life. When I share my story of recovery, I mention him a lot, and always in a good way. My dad is the wisest man that I know. He taught me common sense, reason and to not be afraid to go for things that can make my life better. He is forever a peacemaker and jokester... but more than anything else, he is a great father. His father was absent from his life, so the only father he knew was God. I used to get so annoyed when he disciplined me by preaching to me. Now I know that he was leaning on the words of the only Father he knew. He didn’t have to be there for us. He could have walked out at any time. I can honestly say that even though he made mistakes with me, at no point did he set out to deliberately hurt me. Everything he did, right or wrong, was done with love and good intentions. He went above and beyond when it came to “dad duty”. He would babysit my dolls for me so I could go out and play. Sometimes I would come home to find them all lined up on the couch, watching tv or they would be tucked in for a nap. He taught me to ride my bike, how to play tennis, and spent countless hours at poolside throwing coins into the pool for me to dive for. He taught me life lessons as well... when I went through my first breakup, I was crushed and cried for days. Finally, my dad sat me down and said, “Look, you lived happily without him before, and you can live happily without him now.” That little morsel cut my mourning period over lost relationships way down. He also taught me that you can’t hold everyone in a death grip and expect them to stay. He used our parakeet as an example. When we wanted to take him out of his cage, if we just grabbed him, he’d fight like crazy to be free. But, if we just stuck our finger out and let him step onto it, he would happily stay there for a long time. Dad also said that “there is a fine line between hugging someone and suffocating them.” It took me a while to see how a lot of his words of wisdom applied to me in my life, but I am seeing it more and more as time goes by. My dad and I are pretty close now, and I still hang on to his words. Much more often than not, the man is giving us pearls. Everyone knows about the long term romance I had with suicide. It was my father’s words coming through that gave me a tiny bit of hope, and eventually led to my longevity in the recovery process. He simply said, what if you give up right before things get good? He’s right. Some people have their father's looks, or abilities. I got my father's longevity, humor, and hopefully his wisdom. He’s retired now, but he still casts the odd pearl when it is needed. And while he didn't always give me what I wanted, he definitely gave me what I needed. The best thing he ever told me? "Never let anyone treat you like you are anything less than a child of God".