Sporadical Jumps
Things were really bad last week. The worst I have ever made since I decided to go for recovery 3 years ago when Amelia and Irene convinced me to. I'm at square one now.
Back to the beginning and starting all over again. And there's no one to be mad at but myself, this I am well too aware of. So here I am, starting recovery from scratch. Again.
I can't even apologize. It's worthless and there's no value to them considering how much of a piece of shit I am. I don't deserve to feel guilty when my stupid rationality flies out the fucking window every time my mood fluctuates downhill like a shitty economic bar.
Fucking hell.
If you can't tell by now, it means I relapsed.
Past tense.
I'm a little bit okay now, since the moods has passed, but I'm gonna have to start the recovery process all over again from scratch as I've reiterated above. I'm not doing excellent or good, but I'm trying what I can to counter it.
It's probably not going to be safe for a while, but that's better than my mind eating itself inside out and my body subconsciously heeding its will.
It was the night of last Monday, I think. Roomie weren't in the room (she had a discussion) and my breakdown was convenient. I had already made several cuts when she came back and on one brief second of sanity, I'd thrown my pocket-knives to her and told her to keep them away from me as I rush to the toilet to washthe blood off my arm.
I don't remember what triggered it.
Yet I remember feeling like a too much air-infused balloon inside my chest and my skin is peeling off the meat of my bones, layer by layer. No thoughts in my head, just endless agonizing screams. I remember taking deep breaths as much as I could though it just sounded like I was wheezing out of helium gas. I didn't cry. I couldn't.
It felt just like old times, eh?
Naturally, I didn't sleep for two nights. The panic attacks keep coming in my sleep and I frequently had to run to the toilet to vomit out liquids and a lot of the hours are spent near the toilet bowl or the sink.Thank God roomie's a dead sleeper.
We had wednesdays off (no class) so I managed to take a break, at least for a day. The red marks and welts were wearing off but seeing them on my arm made me feelboth relieved and guilty. I keep forgetting my assignment tasks because of these.
I started writing again to wash out the remnants of the relapse (namely, all the self-hate and guilt and abomination of feelings I can muster) and by the end of the day, I'd felt slightly better. The panic attacks wore off the day after but it left my sleep schedule in pieces.
I neglected the task of providing food to my body though that day and it went on until 3 days have passed with me surviving purely on canned coffee and mineral water. I don't know whether I did it consciously or not but for one fact, I know I keep making plans to get food whether on my way back from class or on my way to class but when I realized it, I had gotten to my room or class without stopping by the cafe at all.
My classmates are aware of this, the two people I've ever casually confide in, but it is as far as they could go about the situation. Awareness. Of course, it wasn't as if I had expectations in the first place.
In fact, I owe one of them a great apology for unintentionally lashing out at them when I was the one who reached out during the first night of my panic attack. I was a major dick.
(I'd taken it upon myself to throw them food at random times as apology. Pretty sure they don't realize it for what it was but heck, it doesn't matter)
I'm making effort though. Yesterday, I finally forced myself to swallow a healthy amount of rice and held back the urge to throw it up when I finished. Plus, I took the time to get dinner last night, satisfied when I don't feel like throwing up anymore as I finish the whole thing.
I even got proper brunch today. *throws confetti*
So yeah, I did bad, but I'm not wallowing in despair because of it.
I was a bit not good, but I'm making effort to fix it.
I was down on my face, but I'm getting back up again.
This probably won't mean anything but for what it's worth, I'm sorry.
I'll probably get them again more often in the future, now that I'm back at square one, but I promise I'll fight for everything it's worth.
We knew it's not gonna be easy.
We knew I'd probably screw up and fuck myself six ways to sundays to the right end of the earth. But one thing's different, I haven't met Amelia nor Irene before I started recovery.
And I started recovery because they gave me the courage to.
So I'm not gonna be a pussy and eat dirt because of one setback, even if it's a major one.
The voices that scold me and sang to me in my head at my worst moments were theirs.
Even if I'm worth less than a piece of shit by the sidewalk (they're gonna fucking kill me for this), I'm not gonna waste the effort they put into getting me to choose recovery once.
Because let's be frank, they saved my fucking life.
Back to the beginning and starting all over again. And there's no one to be mad at but myself, this I am well too aware of. So here I am, starting recovery from scratch. Again.
I can't even apologize. It's worthless and there's no value to them considering how much of a piece of shit I am. I don't deserve to feel guilty when my stupid rationality flies out the fucking window every time my mood fluctuates downhill like a shitty economic bar.
Fucking hell.
If you can't tell by now, it means I relapsed.
Past tense.
I'm a little bit okay now, since the moods has passed, but I'm gonna have to start the recovery process all over again from scratch as I've reiterated above. I'm not doing excellent or good, but I'm trying what I can to counter it.
It's probably not going to be safe for a while, but that's better than my mind eating itself inside out and my body subconsciously heeding its will.
It was the night of last Monday, I think. Roomie weren't in the room (she had a discussion) and my breakdown was convenient. I had already made several cuts when she came back and on one brief second of sanity, I'd thrown my pocket-knives to her and told her to keep them away from me as I rush to the toilet to wash
I don't remember what triggered it.
Yet I remember feeling like a too much air-infused balloon inside my chest and my skin is peeling off the meat of my bones, layer by layer. No thoughts in my head, just endless agonizing screams. I remember taking deep breaths as much as I could though it just sounded like I was wheezing out of helium gas. I didn't cry. I couldn't.
It felt just like old times, eh?
Naturally, I didn't sleep for two nights. The panic attacks keep coming in my sleep and I frequently had to run to the toilet to vomit out liquids and a lot of the hours are spent near the toilet bowl or the sink.
We had wednesdays off (no class) so I managed to take a break, at least for a day. The red marks and welts were wearing off but seeing them on my arm made me feel
I started writing again to wash out the remnants of the relapse (namely, all the self-hate and guilt and abomination of feelings I can muster) and by the end of the day, I'd felt slightly better. The panic attacks wore off the day after but it left my sleep schedule in pieces.
I neglected the task of providing food to my body though that day and it went on until 3 days have passed with me surviving purely on canned coffee and mineral water. I don't know whether I did it consciously or not but for one fact, I know I keep making plans to get food whether on my way back from class or on my way to class but when I realized it, I had gotten to my room or class without stopping by the cafe at all.
My classmates are aware of this, the two people I've ever casually confide in, but it is as far as they could go about the situation. Awareness. Of course, it wasn't as if I had expectations in the first place.
In fact, I owe one of them a great apology for unintentionally lashing out at them when I was the one who reached out during the first night of my panic attack. I was a major dick.
(I'd taken it upon myself to throw them food at random times as apology. Pretty sure they don't realize it for what it was but heck, it doesn't matter)
I'm making effort though. Yesterday, I finally forced myself to swallow a healthy amount of rice and held back the urge to throw it up when I finished. Plus, I took the time to get dinner last night, satisfied when I don't feel like throwing up anymore as I finish the whole thing.
I even got proper brunch today. *throws confetti*
So yeah, I did bad, but I'm not wallowing in despair because of it.
I was a bit not good, but I'm making effort to fix it.
I was down on my face, but I'm getting back up again.
This probably won't mean anything but for what it's worth, I'm sorry.
I'll probably get them again more often in the future, now that I'm back at square one, but I promise I'll fight for everything it's worth.
We knew it's not gonna be easy.
We knew I'd probably screw up and fuck myself six ways to sundays to the right end of the earth. But one thing's different, I haven't met Amelia nor Irene before I started recovery.
And I started recovery because they gave me the courage to.
So I'm not gonna be a pussy and eat dirt because of one setback, even if it's a major one.
The voices that scold me and sang to me in my head at my worst moments were theirs.
Even if I'm worth less than a piece of shit by the sidewalk (they're gonna fucking kill me for this), I'm not gonna waste the effort they put into getting me to choose recovery once.
Because let's be frank, they saved my fucking life.
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