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.
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.