From Overdose to Overflow: My Reckless Resurrection
Be It: My Journey from Breakdown to Becoming
Content warning: This story includes references to suicide, mental health struggles, and hospitalization. Please read with care.
Note from Katie Jo:
This is one of the rawest stories I’ve ever shared. It’s about a time in my life when I hit bottom—and somehow began to rise. If you’re in that space now, this is for you. You are not alone.
The Overdose
The medical team swarmed around me, jamming one end of a hose down my throat through my nostril. It was just a dime-sized, clear hollow tube—but the pain, the violation, was unbearable. I knew it was breaking the membrane behind my face as I hacked and cried, but it didn’t stop. The tube slithered deeper down my throat despite my protests.
Doctors and nurses held me down with a harshness that felt like punishment. Their hands were cold and clinical, their glares brighter than the blinding fluorescent lights that stabbed at my drugged eyes. That Godforsaken tube began vacuuming the bile from my stomach while I writhed, a nuisance in their busy ER.
I knew they had real emergencies to deal with—people with crushed bones, gaping wounds, lives on the edge. People who were fighting to live- not me; someone who wanted to die. I was just some privileged teen girl who had overdosed. Their clipped side conversations weren’t subtle. Their derision for me tangible.
But time was ticking. In overdose cases, minutes matter. They had to get the pills out of me before they seeped into my bloodstream. After the pumping, they yanked out the tube, now dripping with mucus and bile. It landed on my t-shirt. I gagged. Then came the charcoal—thick, black, bitter—forced into my stomach to catch what the pump hadn’t.
Blinking through tears, I turned my head. My father stood nearby. Silent. His face twisted in equal parts rage and terror as the staff worked to save me. I felt ashamed.
I was eighteen.
Psych Ward Life
Once I was stabilized, they transferred me to the psych ward. Just like that, I was one of them—officially labeled Mentally Ill. The place reeked of shame and musty linens. The hallway where they locked us had a thin teen with hollow eyes and an eating disorder. Most others were older. Married. Devoutly religious.
Two days in, a tech gave me clean scrubs. I’d tossed my soiled t-shirt and underwear into the bin. The fuzzy blue socks with plastic grips felt like luxury.
At night, doors locked automatically. Red emergency lights glared. In the mornings, I saw dried blood on the rec room floor—remnants of a woman’s suicide attempt using the foil box from her lunch tray. She was a missionary’s mom. A mother of six.
The testing was relentless. Paperwork. Interviews. Group therapy. Pills in tiny plastic cups. More testing. Because I was bulimic, my meals were monitored, and a tech followed me to the bathroom. I had to count out loud—“One. Two. Three. Four. Five.”—to prove I wasn’t purging.
We played cards and ping pong like it was summer camp. But it was all pretend. Social masking games. I found my “click,” learned the pecking order, and faked being okay.
But at night, the masks fell. I wasn’t alone in my torment. The room echoed with smothered sobs. The silence haunted me—not just mine, but everyone’s.
The Tests That Didn’t Break Me
That psych ward was society in microcosm. Rules. Expectations. Smiles handed out like prescriptions. We were taught what happy should look like, and given pills to force it.
To me, the staff were jailers. I was a voice in the wind, screaming about a broken system while they insisted I was the broken one.
Seventy-two hours is standard for suicide watch.
I was there for ten days.
They wanted to prove I was mentally incompetent. I got no visitors. My parents, claiming adult guardianship, conspired with the therapists to "protect" me from my friends. Because I paused when I spoke, they decided my brain was slow.
But when the test results came back, they couldn’t deny the truth.
Katie Jo wasn’t mentally handicapped. Not even close.
My brain worked so fast, my mouth couldn’t keep up. That’s why I circled back, why I stammered. What looked like confusion was actually speed. Precision. Insight.
They couldn’t hold me anymore.
Misha and the Art That Saved Me
I might have tried again. I might have succeeded next time—if it weren’t for Misha.
My ex-boyfriend’s big sister. She was everything I wasn’t: college grad, teacher, married, stable. But she had always seen me.
She showed up at my house and told my parents, “I came to ask her to live with us.”
Without a word, I packed a bag, climbed out the basement window, and slid into her car—avoiding my mother’s gaze of eternal disappointment.
For six months, Misha left me notes every morning:
I believe in you.
You matter.
You are more than enough.
She didn’t try to fix me. They just let me be.
I worked at a restaurant, smoked cheap cigars after shifts, and stayed up drawing with Crayola pencils and Bic pens on cardboard boxes. I painted my closet doors and pinned my art to the walls. Misha didn’t stop me. No one did.
I created chaos. Magic. Emotion. Color.
And something inside of me began to breathe.
Jumping the Train
One hot afternoon, I tried to cross the railroad yard shortcut I always used. But a freight train blocked the way. Car after car screeched by.
Without over thinking, I ran.
The whisper came: I bet I could catch that.
I sprinted. Matched its speed. Grabbed the metal ladder. Pulled myself up.
Heart racing, I jumped again moments later—rolling through gravel and landing hard. My elbows were scraped, but I was alive.
Stupid. Reckless. But alive.
A Sketch That Sparked My Soul
That night, I stared at the ceiling, questions swirling:
What am I here for? What do I even bring to the world?
Then I saw her—one of my sketches. A cartoonish woman with fire-red curls and aquamarine eyes. Gentle. Kind. Not smiling, but knowing.
And I realized:
If I had died, she wouldn’t exist.
No, she wouldn’t hang in a museum.
But she existed.
And because of that, the world was slightly different.
Creating with the Divine
That was the spark.
Maybe I didn’t need to be grand.
Maybe I just needed to be.
I could draw. Dance. Drum. Write. Love. Create.
And by doing that, I could be part of the solution.
I didn't need to save the world. I just had to be me.
And so I made a commitment:
To create with the Divine.
To make sure my actions ignite my soul.
To live fully in the moment.
To meet me.
Divinity isn’t outside of us. It’s not something others give you permission to feel. It’s already in you.
You don’t find it. You remember it.
Ask Yourself:
What do you lose hours in?
What fills you with peace?
What brings you alive?
We are not here to be perfect, or famous, or flawless.
We are here to contribute. To shine our light.
Even one small light can guide another traveler home.
Creating with the Divine is not always beautiful.
It’s messy. Chaotic. Grieving. Bold. Brave.
So is being human.
And so are you.
So am I.
Be it.
Katie Jo is a best selling author, artist, and public speaker. She is featured on the Legacy Makers TV series streamed world wide.
To learn more about her- go here: Katie Jo
Read more of her blogs here: How the Drum Saved my Life
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