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.
