Tukayote Helianthus: Unkillable
RECOVERY, EMOTION, DANCE, PHOTOS, AND TUNES.
NO ANESTHESIA. NO BULLSHIT. ALL LOVE.
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I was diagnosed with Bipolar I in 2007, but the truth is my war with myself started long before that—shaped by childhood trauma, military exposure, toxic relationships, and years of survival-mode coping. I lost jobs, housing, stability, and nearly my sense of self. What changed wasn’t a miracle cure. It was ownership. I got sober. I faced my history head-on. I learned my brain, my trauma, my patterns, and my parts. Recovery, for me, isn’t a finish line—it’s a daily practice of honesty, responsibility, and refusing to disappear. I’m not just what happened to me. I’m who I chose to…
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The last three weeks have kicked my ass. I’m exhausted, restless, anxious, and juggling consequences from years of medications that keep me alive while quietly wrecking my body. Akathisia, brutal side effects, diabetes, sleep apnea, and yet another possible med change—all while quitting cannabis, nicotine, caffeine, energy drinks, and everything else I used to lean on. This is what recovery actually looks like sometimes: choosing the least dangerous path forward when every option sucks. I’m not giving up. I’m adapting. My body finally called bullshit, and now I’m listening. It’s heavy, but I’m still here—and I’m not done.
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Meet Roxy: my fiercest protector and most relentless firefighter. Her job is simple—keep me away from fear at any cost. Her weapon is dopamine. When alcohol and nicotine were taken off the table, she didn’t disappear; she adapted. Food became the new delivery system. What I’m learning is uncomfortable but crucial: addiction doesn’t vanish when you remove a substance, it shape-shifts. This year isn’t just about sobriety or blood sugar or weight—it’s about rebuilding trust with the part of me that learned to survive through stimulation. If I don’t understand why I chase dopamine, I’ll stay owned by it. Recovery,…
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