Roxanne

I once overheard someone say about me, “I want to be on what she’s on.”

They were trying to be funny. Maybe it was a compliment—pointing to my energy, my brightness, the way I keep smiling even when life doesn’t exactly sparkle. But still, it landed a little strangely. As if joy, in my case, couldn’t be absolute unless it was drug-induced. As if someone like me—someone living with schizophrenia and poverty—couldn’t possibly be okay unless I was riding some pharmaceutical cloud.

To people who think I must be on drugs just because I’m animated, cheerful, or lighthearted, I usually smile and say, I get naturally high.

But the truth behind the brightness is not so breezy.

I live with schizophrenia. And statistically, that comes with a shorter life span, a higher risk of suicide, and a daily wrestling match with an inner world that often doesn’t know what to do with itself. So when someone wonders what I’m “on,” the answer isn’t just medication (although yes, that’s part of it).

I’m on grit. I’m on grace. I’m on work—hard, unglamorous, everyday work.

I’m on choosing to stay.

And it is a choice, especially on the days when my mind tries to convince me that the storm won’t pass.

I work as a home health aide. It’s not glamorous, but it’s real.

Sometimes it means helping people at the very end—feeding them oatmeal, fluffing their pillows, listening to what may be the last story they ever tell. There’s something profound about that—how everything unnecessary falls away, and only what truly matters is left.

It teaches you to pay attention. To hold on to the small things. It also teaches you how staggeringly unfair life can be.

For people already facing illness, trauma, disability, or financial instability, life is more than just hard. It’s survival in slow motion. It’s trying to hike uphill in shoes two sizes too small. And when you add in racism, discrimination, and inequality, some people aren’t just climbing—they’re dragging a mountain behind them.

If you’ve never had to choose between rent and medication, you might not understand. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t real.

Roxanne—Roxies—refers to Roxicodone, a powerful opioid prescribed for moderate to severe pain. They’ve created drugs for almost everything, including pain, inflammation, and infection. But not for loneliness. Not for the kind of sorrow that makes you feel like you're fading away. No pill completely cures the type of depression that makes suicide feel like a solution.

This is a sensitive topic for me—not because I’ve figured it out perfectly, but because I’ve stared it down and decided to keep going. I’ve turned every sour lemon thrown my way into lemonade—sometimes bitter, but still mine. I’m not qualified to speak on suicide as an expert. But I am qualified to speak on surviving cruelty. On enduring things that could break a person.

But here's something I’ve come to believe: there is a kind of pain reliever for suicidal thoughts, though it doesn’t come in a bottle. It’s connection. It’s being seen. It’s someone remembering your name, or laughing at your joke, or sitting quietly beside you when they don’t know what to say. Those moments don’t cure the pain, but they soften it. They remind you you’re still here, still human, still worthy of love. And sometimes, that’s enough to make it to tomorrow.

Let’s also talk about kindness—and how easy it is to forget that it needs protection.

If you’re kind, if you’re the one who always gives the benefit of the doubt, I see you. I am you. But here’s something no one tells the friendly people: being kind doesn’t mean you’re safe.

Some people will see your softness and see an opportunity. And if they’re motivated enough—by power, control, or just the thrill of taking—you could be left hurt in ways you didn’t see coming.

That’s not cynicism. That’s lived experience.

So protect your peace. Say no when your gut says no. Boundaries don’t make you mean. They make you strong. They make you still here.

Sometimes, when I feel myself slipping into that spiral of doubt or fear, I imagine sitting across from my future self.

She’s older. Wiser. Maybe a little more wrinkled, a little more silver in the hair. But she looks steady. Solid. Like someone who’s made it through more storms than I’ve even seen yet.

And I ask her: What should I do now? ’ What would you wish I knew when I was you?

I think she’d take a deep breath and say something like:
Keep going. You’re going to laugh again. You’re going to dance again. You’re going to sit in the sun and feel something like peace, even if it’s just for a moment. That moment will be enough to keep you going again.

I think she’d also smile and say:
Stop doubting yourself. You’ve survived every single thing that’s tried to take you down. That’s not luck. That’s you.

So no, I’m not “on” something miraculous. I’m on reality. On persistence. On loving myself in small, defiant ways even when my brain tells me I shouldn’t.

I’m on choosing light. Choosing breath. Choosing to show up again and again, even when I’m tired.

And after everything—after every hard day, every misunderstood moment, every time I had to convince myself my existence matters—

I’m glad I have lived.