Thursday 21 June 2018

Relapsing

(Note: This was written at the beginning of February 2018 but I have only just felt comfortable to post it now I am in a better place) 

Anyone who has ever suffered from a mental health condition will know of the omnipresent and unrelenting fear, which pervades every aspect of your being, of relapsing after a period of positivity. The thought of having come so far in your recovery only to be thrown kicking and screaming back into the torturous confines of your own mind is utterly terrifying.

Growing up I was scared by everything. Spiders, snakes, flying, toasters, death – you name it, I was scared of it. But nothing, not even death, scares me as much as relapsing. I have spent the past two years trying to recover from a plethora of mental health conditions which backdate almost seven years. To have finally reached a point, after months and months of failed attempts, where I can get through a whole day without crying, having a panic attack, or starving myself makes me feel an almost utopian contentment. Yet, every now and again, I revert to old habits of overexerting myself in an attempt to fit in and not miss out, and wind up back at the start. I cry, I panic, I stress, I under-eat and over-exercise, I binge drink. You name a self-destructive behaviour, I do it.

You may be wondering why I’m writing such an account of relapsing. Well, it’s because this is the first time since my official recovery, that I have hit rock-bottom and been on the verge of relapse but resisted its urges. My physical and mental health plummeted to their lowest in months after a week of post-exams celebrations which mainly involved a diet of gin and hummus, and about four hours sleep a night. A trip to A&E pushed me over the edge. It reminded me of how lucky I had been this time to come away with only mild concussion and a few bruised bones. It reminded me of the fragility of life and how after everything I’ve been through, how quickly it can all fade into nothing.

The difference between this potential relapse and others in the past was my introspection. I lay in bed two days later, crying after having my first panic attack in three months, and considered reverting to old habits of social exclusion and calorie restriction. I needed control back in my life and these options felt familiar and safe. Asleep I dreamt of nothing, my body too exhausted but to fall into a silent twelve hours of recovery. The next morning I awoke, re-energised and optimistic. I decided that life was good and worth being happy about. I realised that festering in a pit of my own misery and dirty laundry wasn’t going to satiate me anymore. I had experienced what complete unequivocal happiness felt like and nothing was going to steal that away from me.

For me, self-care is washing my clothes, my hair, my body; cleaning my surroundings; cooking healthy food; chatting with friends; and reading. It’s attempting to convince myself that I am in fact a functional human being. So that’s what I did and it worked. I went, in the space of three days, from rock-bottom to the summit. Putting my mental and physical health first when I could have very easily have slipped right back into a depressive cycle felt natural because the cost of having to recover again is not affordable anymore.

I suppose the point of this is just to say to anyone else who fears relapsing that it is possible to clasp victory from the claws of defeat if you cling on to every motivation you have to stay afloat. Relapsing is nothing to be ashamed of but it is possible to survive and avoid it.