Tag Archives: relapse

tw: i feel too sad

Overwhelmed with sadness
I find it hard to breathe on.
Each day is coloured by misery
and my mind is too far gone.

If giving up was easier
and meant a lot less pain,
this sharp and ice-cold knife
would have already met my vein.

Yet as it is these scars
are as far as I can go,
to express my darkest despair
about how I feel too low.

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What if?

Every day is a battle, and every day seems to be getting harder and harder to get through. I know it’s because my mood is currently diving all the way down to hell, and I know that there have been days that were easier, that weren’t as bad, but when I spend my nights watching self-destructive memories flash in front of my eyes and my days questioning if I should eat something, if I should get out of bed, if I should continue my life or not, then it’s just a bit difficult to remind myself of the positive aspects of my life and of easier times.

I wish I could tell my mind to just put a sock in it. I wish I could tell it to think about my best friends, my very much beloved boyfriend, about the little things that make me laugh like bad jokes and videos/pictures of kittens and puppies (and all the sweet baby animals out there), but it’s just, unfortunately, not an option all the time. Things that trigger me, even if it’s just the smallest situation, seem to be getting the best of me each time, and it doesn’t matter how often I count from 1 to 10, or how much I try to control my breathing and bite my lips to keep the screaming, the pain inside; I just always seem to be standing on the edge of a cliff, swaying back and forth, threatening to fall.

They say that it gets easier. I agree. It can get easier, it does get easier, but the issue is that out of nowhere it can get horribly worse again, and if you aren’t prepared for that, if you haven’t quite learnt how to fly instead of fall, it just fucking sucks. I want to believe and hope and fight, but my God, currently? Currently I’m hopeless. Currently I’m standing in front of the mirror, hating every inch of this body, wondering how it’s possible that I’m loved. Currently I’m hearing every single voice inside of my head yelling curses at me, hitting me from each side. And my God, they say that fire cannot kill a dragon, yet what if all this time I’ve seen myself as a dragon, I’ve been nothing but a puppet in a cruel play; what if the only purpose I have is to wait till the curtain closes and my puppet masters decide to cut the strings in order to choke me with them? What if, what if, what if?

What if I’m just too tired, too old, too broken to go on?


March: an update (TW)

March is almost over already and so far I don’t have any particularly great news to share. If I look back at this month, the mere words that come to my mind are painted with nothing but agony and despair. About a year ago I was discharged from inpatient treatment, about a year ago I tried very hard to overcome things on my own, to keep up with my health and stability and yet today? Today I find myself once again standing in front of a cliff while the harsh wind is rushing past me, cutting into my skin like blades, either trying to push me over or ‘convince’ me to ‘just take a step closer to the edge’.

My eating disorder is getting worse again. Night after night I end up exercising more and more, my days are filled with thoughts about how much I should be doing later on, if I should be eating, if I didn’t already have enough and above all: if I should get rid of it again. The fact that I’m struggling a lot with purging especially is getting to me. Not because it’s something particularly new, but because it used to not play such a huge role in my life as it does now. While there’s always a sick corner in my mind that is craving the rush, the feeling of emptiness, there are also other parts that leave me broken when I’m finished. I don’t feel ‘well’ or accomplished or great when I look into the mirror.
I feel tired. I feel disgusted with myself. I feel upset, and yes, I also feel sad.
Sad that it seems like it doesn’t matter how hard I’m trying because I just cannot get out of these vicious cycles.
Self harm, depression, detachment, exhaustion, anxiety, despair – only a few of the things I’ve been forced to fight for far too long already.

(Once again I can hear past therapists’ words playing in the back of my mind:
Sometimes, when it’s been going on for such a long time, it’s too late.“)

It’s too late.
Those few words that have always been screaming for attention inside of me.
It’s too late, too late, too late.
Are there any other words that make you feel more hopeless than these? At least at the moment I cannot think of any.
What if they are right? What if this is it?

To be quite honest, when I think about how many years my mental illnesses have already consumed, I can feel my knees getting weak. The past is stained with dark red blotches of misery and my future doesn’t look any better either; everyone agrees with that.
I’ve long accepted that if I continue, I will always need my medication, I will always need to be careful, to watch my every step. A fact that makes me wonder, more often than not, if it’s worth it.
After all, my illnesses have invaded every part of my life, ruined it, ruined me. I feel like I’m doomed to spend the rest of my life trying to fix it, doomed to spend my life with the attempt to survive instead of actually living it. A thought that feels like there’s a knife stuck in my chest.

I’m tired.

Tomorrow I’m seeing my new therapist for the last time until my insurance company decides to allow further sessions. Hopefully they won’t make me wait for too long again, though, because despite all disordered thoughts and voices inside of me, I’m quite aware that I need the help and that I need it asap.
Let’s wait and see if I’ll get it.


In three pieces.

One.
Hour after hour I find myself right here in this bed, unable to do anything but stare blankly ahead.
I feel nothing.
Nothing at all.
This emptiness is blurring my walls.
I’m disappearing.
The void is swallowing my voice.
Am I even real?

Two.
I’m consumed.
This is too much (t o o  m u c h,  t  o  o   m  u  c  h).
My chest is on fire.
It’s like I was stabbed, again and again, only to be left exposed.
Don’t look.
This isn’t for you to see. And yet,
I wonder if I opened my skin now, would you be able to understand my thoughts?
It hurts. The stitches keeping me together are slowly being pulled apart.
H/e/l/p/m/e.

Three.
I woke up without certainty.
My mind feels clouded and I’m sure my lips are shivering not because of this cold.
A decision has been made.
Even if it isn’t the right one. Even if it doesn’t please you.
Today is my last day.
I
give
up.


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t:me

Death knocked on my door,
asked me if I want to come along, once more.
And once again I’m crying, not sure what to say.
“I think it’s time. I don’t want to stay.”


let me d:e

Being in this body feels
excruciating.
It’s driving me mad.
(I need to go back to what I had.)
I s // h // o // u // l // d // n // ’ // t.
But
it hurts so much
to be
stuck
in this body. I feel like screaming.
Like screaming
could pull me out of this
body, out of this thing I
utterly despise.


 

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February. An update.

This week truly hasn’t been one of my best. I relapsed a lot and if I had to describe my mood, I’d say that it seems to be stuck in between ‘low’ and ‘so low, I can almost taste the fire of hell on my lips’ which is probably why I spent most of it in bed or feeling too paralysed to do anything else but staring ahead of me, getting lost in my thoughts and whatever bit of darkness can be found in it.

Yesterday, however, I was forced to go out to see my new (I lost count of how many I’ve had) therapist, after I’ve tried for months to convince my insurance company to cover the costs for my treatment. To be honest, there isn’t a lot to say about it yet, except that so far he seems more capable than any of the others I’ve had in my life. I don’t want to go out on a limb and say that I’m hopeful, though. After all, it’s been only one session so far, and who knows, maybe after the first five probatory sessions, he will decide that he no longer believes that he can help me as so many others have already. (A hopeless case. That’s what I’ve been called too often already.) Or maybe, I’ll be the one putting my foot down because his treatment plan isn’t the right one for me, after all. We’ll see.

Regardless of that, I must say that it was exhausting to go back to talking about things that have happened in my life, and things that are making it currently unbearable. Of course I am used to thinking about those topics, I’m used to writing about them and finding some comfort in written words, and yet all these memories flowing around inside of my head seemed to have drained me of all my energy yesterday. I could barely stand after I left his office because my whole body had tensed up too much, and each fibre of my being was screaming in agony.

I certainly hope that with time, it will be easier once again.

Still,
there are already things that I appreciate about my new therapist. It’s not only that he promised to take care of things with my insurance company, but also that he’s actively listening, that he isn’t interrupting me or simply adding off-the-rack comments such as ‘That’s sad.’ and ‘Oh yes, that’s understandable.’ One of the things I am appreciate of the most, however, is that I’m allowed to talk about my suicidal thoughts without having to worry that I will be threatened with forcibly admission back into inpatient treatment.

There is something relieving about the ability to talk about the darkest thoughts and plans without always having to make sure that I’m not sharing too much for my own good.


Darkness at half past one.

Once again
I feel like I‘m dying; like I‘m fading away from those who care.
I‘m trying to hold on, yet I‘m blinded, unable to see your hands. Who or what am I supposed to reach out for?
I close my eyes, and all I see is darkness. I open them, and pitch-black is the colour that meets my sight.
(Can you still see me?)
(Who am I to you when you look at me, I wonder. Who am I to you as you read these words?)
Quiet;
in the distance
I can hear voices,
yelling even.
Yet I fear they are nothing but the echoes of my demons‘ laughters. My own voice unable to make any sound at all, my writing failing every purpose it ever served.
(I‘m here. Can‘t you see me? I‘m right here.)
(I‘m here.)
(Right here.)
(I am.)
I‘m falling.
The concrete floor is my remedy.


I’m not okay.

My mood has been dropping again a lot lately which (no doubt) is due to the hellish amount of anxiety I have bottled up inside of me. I’m trying very hard to not do what I usually do, but each week/day it only seems to be getting worse. University, especially, is causing me a lot of panic attacks which I’m forced to endure on my own since I have not been able to share that with anyone (until now). Never mind the fact that the issue with my insurance company still has not been resolved; adding only more to the amount of stress I’m already experiencing.

I feel like I’m drowning

(which amusingly would exactly be the preferred way for me to leave*,)

but if you are stuck with that feeling – like you are trying to keep your head above the water, catching your breath, swallowing the salty taste, losing the fight against the water over and over again, it gets a little bit too much. My body and mind are exhausted. More often than not, *that is the only option I can think of, the only thing I feel the desperate need for, and tbh, I’m not sure how I’m supposed to explain all of that to my psychiatrist. Not because I wouldn’t be able to find the proper words, but because I’m sure that neither he nor I will be able to come up with a solution. Take a break? I can’t, don’t have the time for that. Go back to inpatient treatment? Yeah, as if. I don’t have the time or luxury to do that either. Change medication? Not the smartest move for this time when I’m already unstable and he won’t be around a lot until the start of the next year.

I feel anxious, and lonely. Tired. Empty, and yet full at the very same time. I feel like I’m losing control again, like I was pushed out of a plane without a parachute and am now supposed to survive the fall. I’m not Superman, I’m not a bird, not even a ghost – I can’t fly, and yet it seems like everyone is staring at me, wondering why I’m not twirling around, spreading my arms and smiling like I’m ‘supposed’ to. Each day is draining me, the energy I have left is sometimes hardly enough to get out of bed, to manage some basic necessities. Keeping up appearances has never felt this tiring, this painful.

Tomorrow or some time next week I’m forced to see my psychiatrist about my current medication, to get a refill and check in if I’m still satisfied with them, and yet the only thing I can think about is how much I’m already dreading the infamous question

How are you?“.


Week 47

Lately, things that were supposed to work out just fine seem to be doing nothing but going the wrong way, leaving me in agony and exhaustion and above all, desperation. I want this to be easier, to be without all the complicated feelings of disappointment and anger, to be about positive things that make you wake up in the morning with excitement instead of sorrow, with hope instead of a death wish. However, it seems like regardless of how much I try, I’m not meant to have that kind of life or moments.
Each day is filled with hours of misery – the kind of aching and overwhelming torment that runs through your bones and chains you to your bed, that makes you stare at your walls for hours on end. I just don’t know what I’m supposed to do; in fact, I feel utterly helpless.
Perhaps it seems normal that my mood wouldn’t be the best in these kind of circumstances, and yet, the fact that it has been dropping too much and too often below the manageable level of low is scaring me. Years of therapy have taught me, if nothing else, that these are moments when you need support, when reaching out is the right thing to do, but to whom am I supposed to reach out? The people who are meant to be there for me are not, and to be honest, more often than not, they are the ones who are pushing me over the edge. I feel like I’m once again trapped behind a wall of glass; everyone is staring at me from another angle, speaking their demands and wishes, and waiting for me to comply while I’m forced to turn around and around, to smile and find a way to make it work for everyone.

I’m tired.

I’m at a point in my life that makes me want to push every single person away from me because regardless of how “good” their intentions are, it’s just making it worse. I don’t know who I am or what I want or need in my life. I’ve spent more than half of it battling mental illnesses, and guess what? I’m still not better, yet everyone expects me to act like their definition of a ~healthy~ person with a ~healthy~ or “normal” mind, to make decisions I cannot make yet because they are part of a future I’m nowhere near ready to commit to yet.

Shouldn’t this be understandable? At least a teeny tiny bit? I feel like it should be, but each time I try to explain what it’s like to be in this situation, I fall on deaf ears.

It’s exhausting,
and maddening,
and painful,
and I do not think that I have enough blood left inside of me to cope with all of it for much longer.