Conversations with Cashlynn Perry

Today we’d like to introduce you to Cashlynn Perry. 

Hi Cashlynn, can you start by introducing yourself? We’d love to learn more about how you got to where you are today?
I was born here in Utah but moved around the country quite a bit growing up. I’m an introvert and have struggled with social anxiety for as long as I can remember. Naturally, this made moving pretty hard on me. Eventually, anxiety was joined by depression, and by the time I reached middle school I felt so broken I could barely function. I didn’t know how to handle all of these big feelings and emotions, so I turned to self-harm. My young mind didn’t know what else to do with so much internal pain. Self-harm led me down a dangerous path, which ultimately led to two suicide attempts in 7th and 8th grade. I didn’t know what to do or who to ask for help, so I didn’t. I battled with my mental health throughout the rest of my childhood. 

On the morning of my 18th birthday, my entire world changed. Two pink lines told me I was going to be a mother. At 18. I was terrified. My pregnancy led to a whirlwind marriage and (shocker) divorce shortly after. It was just me and my sweet 1-year-old baby Dallas. He spent most of this time with my family. I was working 3 minimum wage jobs, and sleeping in the backseat of my car in between. 

Fast forward to two years later, and my life had changed completely. I was re-married, a stay-at-home mom to my now toddler, and pregnant with my second child. Life had calmed down completely. I had all of the hope and happiness in the world! 

Halfway through my second pregnancy, we got the news that the baby had Clubfoot. We saw fetal medicine specialists for the remainder of my pregnancy and it was confirmed time and again. He would be healthy, clubfoot is treatable. 

The second half of my pregnancy was high risk, a placental abruption landed me in the hospital for the last month, and on May 5th, 2014, Stockton was born with the cutest crooked little feet you’ve ever seen. The day he was born he got his second diagnosis. Arthrogryposis (congenital joint contractures), he could not use or open his hands. Otherwise, healthy! He can live with this, they said. We took him home! 

Not even a week later he was admitted into our local Children’s Hospital for failing a swallow study. He had lost almost 2 lbs. and couldn’t eat anything. More diagnoses. GERD, Failure to thrive. Insert feeding tube. Go home, he’ll grow out of this. 

Except he didn’t, and before his first birthday he had become a complete medical mystery. We couldn’t find anyone that could diagnose him or tell us what was happening to our baby. He had been declared terminal, and they said he will not see his first birthday. That first year held so many terrifying moments. Brain surgeries, seizures, abdominal surgeries, a tracheotomy, more conditions, and then just when we thought we had them under control, more would appear. Ambulance rides, life flights, ICU stays, and a code blue. This year was hell. If you remember, they said he will not turn one, but then he did. 

Year after year Stockton grew more and more complex. Harder to understand for medical professionals. More emergencies and more surgeries and more hospitalizations and ambulance rides and life flights and code blues and on and on. There was always more. 

I know what you’re thinking, that child could not have had a quality of life. You hear all of the medical conditions, the emergencies, the struggles, and you’re right— they were horrible, they were unimaginable, but they were not his defining qualities. That wasn’t his story. 

His defining factors were not his physical deformities or developmental delays… his defining factors were his courage, his strength, his willpower, his tenacity. His FIGHT. This little boy could be in the ICU and he would grin at you. He laughed, he loved, he was silly! 

As his parents, it became our mission to fight like hell for him medically, but it was also equally important that his life was not defined by his medical chart. We wanted him to live, and we fought just as hard for that. For him, and for his two siblings. 

(In 2016, we welcomed a baby girl, Liberty. Libby was born 8 weeks premature via emergency c-section. Perfectly healthy.) 

Stockton lived for 6 beautiful years. He taught me and the rest of the world so many incredible lessons. We never had a nurse, and because of that, he was my right-hand man! My every second of every day was spent caring for him. Therapy, medications, dancing, snuggling, doctors’ appointments, all of it. My whole life was his, and I was glad to do it. 

I gained such an incredible perspective on life from Stockton, but when he was gone… I lost it. It felt as if someone had ripped my soul from my body. I couldn’t function. I couldn’t bathe myself. I couldn’t care for my two beautiful surviving children. I couldn’t do anything. 

The day after Stockton died, I saw a doctor and was put on 6 different medications. The shock and denial eventually faded into nothing— I was a complete zombie. I couldn’t think clearly, I couldn’t feel anything. I was numb, and I probably needed to be. Eventually (nearly a year later) I realized I couldn’t process and live this way— so I stopped every medication cold turkey. Big mistake. 

Every ounce of grief and pain I had avoided slammed into me like a tidal wave. I had no hope, no strength, and no will any longer. I wanted to die, too. 

This is when it got really scary, I knew I could not do this alone and I needed profession help. I tried to admit myself to the Behavioral Center at a local hospital, I spoke with a psychiatrist about how suicidal I was feeling, and they wanted to admit me. My insurance declined, and I was sent home. 

A week later I lost whatever fight I had left in me. The pain was too powerful, too overbearing. I didn’t want to do this anymore, I couldn’t. I felt like such a horrible burden to every person in my life. My friends, my family, even my children. I was convinced every person in my life was better off without me. I took an entire bottle of medication. 

I was taken to the hospital and then transferred to another. I spent almost a week there before I was released. I came home to an intervention put on by my family and a couple of close friends. They begged me to get treatment. 

I tried to admit myself into a month-long residential program and was denied by insurance… again. This was completely defeating. I had tried to get help before and after my attempt, and because it was for mental health I was denied. I felt hopeless. Why am I even trying? It was like a slap in the face and I felt more broken than ever. 

After months of searching for help and trying and being continuously denied, I registered for an Intensive Outpatient Program at a Recovery Center. It wasn’t residential like I wanted and needed, but my insurance wasn’t budging. 

I signed up and backed out of my program for about 3 months. I was scared. Not ready to face my demons. Not ready to take accountability, not ready for any of it. 

In January of this year, I finally showed up and signed the papers. I spent 3 months in IOP, 12 hours a week. If I had seen a therapist weekly, it would take me nearly 3 years to receive that much professional care. 

I broke a lot of trust and a lot of hearts when I gave up and made my attempt. I made decisions that I’ll never be able to take back, and I lost several people that I really cared about along the way. I’m not proud of that, but I’m not ashamed either. I was completely shattered and not in my right mind. Not even close. 

My treatment program saved my life. I walked out of that building a different person than when I walked in. Unrecognizable. 

I am still in weekly therapy. Working through my traumas, my grief, and my struggles. Very much a work in progress, and I always will be. I am so grateful to be here still, and raising my sweet kids. 

What I do have now is my hope back. I finally remember every lesson my beautiful son taught me. I remember that this is a world where blessings and tragedies coexist. 

I want to help other people to see and realize that as well. 

I know how it feels to feel alone, to struggle, to wait for a lifeline that feels like it’s never coming. It’s so important to me to speak up and share the good and the bad simultaneously because in a world full of highlight reels, people are lonelier than ever. 

I want people to know that isn’t the case. Struggling does not make you a burden. You are not alone. You matter, and you CAN DO HARD THINGS. 

We got this; 

Alright, so let’s dig a little deeper into the story – has it been an easy path overall, and if not, what were the challenges you’ve had to overcome?
Absolutely not. Throughout my journey, I became so riddled with anxiety that I couldn’t relax, ever. I was always on pins and needles, waiting for the next shoe to drop. 

Everything felt like it was too good to be true, and it felt like if I let my guard down even for a second it would be catastrophic. 

As cliché as it sounds… ease up. Relentless worrying will do nothing but rob you of the present. 

Can you tell our readers more about what you do and what you think sets you apart from others?
I am currently the General Manager for the cutest little Train Car bar in SLC! 

Ideally, I would love a career in advocacy and am working towards that now. I’m a firm believer in the fact that nothing changes if nothing changes. We cannot do better if we do not know better, and speaking up is where we start. 

Can you tell us more about what you were like growing up?
Growing up I was very shy and awkward! I moved almost every year and struggled badly with social anxiety. 

I did sports when I was younger and was horrible at them all! I was a cheerleader for part of high school and otherwise just liked to be with my friends. 

Contact Info:

• Instagram: Instagram.com/cashlynnkate