When life falls apart, and everything shatters into a million pieces, and you're not the person you thought, and have no idea how to rebuild yourself, or what a rebuilt life will look like, it's impossible to picture a future. As the recovery process begins - be it through pharmacological, psychological, psychiatric or personal support [...]
Relapse. For those of us in recovery from one mental health issue or another, it's a filthy word. Who wants to relapse? There's a classic meme showing the difference between reality and expectations when it comes to mental health recovery - expectation is a nice straight line on a consistent upward trajectory. Reality looks like a ball of wool under siege from a horde of rabid kittens.
It seems like I'm always someone else - or pieces of other people put together. Somehow it's always easier to be someone else.
I have wanted death I have cried for it I have sought the final oblivion of death for as long as I am able to remember. Yet, I am here, I am alive and I can not help but wonder why? Why did the rope not strangle me, or the pills stop my heart? Why when the trigger was pulled, the gun did not spark? Why, when my blood was flowing, did my pulse still beat? Why when the voices yelled death and murder was I not defeated?
Decades of maladaptive coping mechanisms crashed down around my ears, and the words severe depression and chronic anxiety were bandied about - in relation to me. I was in the depths of self-induced starvation, self-harming, highly suicidal, too depressed to function, and suffering the physical misery of high anxiety – pounding heart, shaking hands, internal catastrophising, panic attacks. I’d become one of “those people”.