On Jan 17 I attempted suicide and survived. I was on the precipice of death. I never thought I would recover physically let alone emotionally. Fast forward 5 months and I am back studying, about to finish for the year. Amazing recovery. Hard, but by all accounts I ticked all the boxes like a good patient.
That was until June hit. Suddenly mountains of work and looming deadlines. Anxiety started to weadle its way back in. Next thing I know I’m waking all hours cramming every spare minute into study of some description.
Then the thoughts hit me. I’m fat. I’m out of control. I need to lose weight. I need to change. I need to act. Now. I need to do something drastic and quickly.
Everything starts slipping, and where I think I have control everything seems so out of control. Unreal. Alternate reality. Grasping onto feathers on the wind, my thoughts whirl round. Tumbling through the abyss that is 2am. Next thing I know I haven’t taken one of my medications all week. And I’m relapsing.
But I’m not relapsing because I stopped the medication. It happened before then. The decision to stop is not a rational one. So when did the lapse become a relapse? And when does the relapse stop? Will it end well or badly? If only I could tell all the answers.
That’s the hardest thing about relapse, there often isn’t a big bold neon sign telling you it’s happening. Relapse is pernicious; it creeps like a lion hunting it’s prey until you’re caught in it’s claws once again.
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