The Relapse.

I'm not sure how to even begin to write a post about these sorts of things. Do you start with a Web MD definition? Do you start by explaining that you didn't put the word 'depression' in the title because you're stubborn and don't like labelling these things because you try so very hard every single day to be strong?

Trying to be strong.. That is the exact reason I chose to use the photo up there for this post. Because that photo was taken less than a week ago, when I was in the midst of the shitstorm that had become my emotions. It's almost too easy to convince myself that everything is fine and plaster on a convincing smile, even when every fibre in my body is yelling out that it's not. 

Maybe sometimes should label these things, because sometimes symptoms are chronic enough to affect your whole life. I grew up like this. Not that I was raised like this, but you can say, this is who I am and now, well.. some things have happened in my life recently that have had me beginning to feeling like I did back then. Back when I was gripped by anxiety and depression. I feel like the world has been crushing me. Slowly. And it's getting worse. I just thought, "maybe I should open up", because every symptom I once had is coming back. Slowly but surely, it's running through my veins all over again.

It's strange writing about this into this open and public blog. Not that I haven't mentioned anxiety and other worries, because I have. It's just so weird, finally letting my guard down and dropping my pride and simply coming out, saying, "I have this, it is real, it affects me every day.
This post is going to get real, guys.

I still remember the day.. I got out of bed having had no sleep the night before. I drove to work and sat at my desk and one by one, my co-workers would come in the door, saying their good mornings and their how are yous and I'd smile politely and offer my greeting. Clients began streaming in soon after, expecting a smile and a friendly chat from the receptionist. I smiled and waved. I small talked and acted happy. I loved my job, I loved my friends, I loved my family, I loved life. But I had lost interest in all of them. All of it.
Looking back, losing interest in the people who loved me was the worst.

At about 10am that morning, I just couldn’t do it anymore. I excused myself to the bathroom where I curled up and cried. I was found almost 20 minutes later by the office manager who had innocently ventured to the bathroom to pee in peace. Instead, she found the mess that I had become sobbing on the floor. I hate to be seen in a time of weakness so I asked her to take me home where I took three sleeping pills in one gulp and that was the end of that day.

I went to see a psychiatrist in secret almost a week later and at 17 years of age, I was told that there might be a chemical imbalance in my brain. He prescribed a mixture of pills and the whole time, I had an uneasy feeling about the whole thing.

I don’t think I can form a string of words to accurately describe the effect this kind of thing has on you. It becomes every part of your being. It is never ending. All you want is peace but even sleep can't give you that, because it wrecks your dreams and turns your days into a puddle of horrid blackness. It destroys your personality, your relationships, your work, your love life, it affects them all. Your ability to give and receive affection is gone. You want to grab it and smash it, but you can’t get a hold of it. I wracked my brain night after restless night, asking myself if there was something I had done that justified the suffering.

Four months on, I barely ate, I never saw anyone, I had watched Spring turn to Summer through the window. That was the real world out there and I was there, in my room living in a whole other world. I was now on about 11 tablets a day and not getting any better. It was obvious to me I was never going to get better. My desire for death was now much stronger than my desire for living.

I went to see a friend of mine after a particularly bad episode. We sat opposite each other in her bedroom. I looked at her for about a minute or so and I began to cry. For an hour and fourty minutes, I talked and she listened. That hour and fourty minutes was more effective than any cocktail of pills had ever been and it had saved my life. Driving home that night, I knew that I was going to better.

Fast forward to today. I am fully off of any medication. For me, it was never the answer. I was in such a good way, so proud of the leaps and bounds I had made between then and now. I had fooled myself into thinking I was 'cured'
..Until two weeks ago. The reason I find myself re-living that darkness.
Because it can't ever truly be cured.
I haven't mentioned this on the blog, or to anyone other than my boyfriend and my mum: just over a week ago, I crashed my car. Nobody was harmed (except my precious car). I'm completely fine, physically. It really was incredibly minor. I'm actually quite embarrassed to admit that I've been on somewhat of an anxiety and depression relapse ever since.

The truth is, and I hate to admit it.. but the truth is.. I'm scared. Of so many things.

I'm scared of having to face up to memories I have buried. The experience had dredged up some terrible flashbacks and memories of what happened with Alyssa. Flashbacks and memories I thought had been successfully blanked from my brain years ago in self-preservation.

I'm scared because I can't bring to open myself up. I'm in a constantly irritable mood; I've barely muttered more than two sentences to anyone other than Jesse for a week now. I've been declining invitations to see my friends, and I rarely want to go out. I just can't be bothered living a life.

I'm scared that my anxiety is getting the better of me. The thought of being in control of a vehicle again, it sickens me. Those 'what if' thoughts, those pictures of what could have happened circle my head when I'm left alone. I find myself dreading going to sleep each night, knowing I had to wake up the next morning and travel to work, and on that hour long bus trip, I become hyper-aware of everything on the roads around me. It's exhausting.

I look back on the personal struggles I’ve had and wonder how differently things may be had I sought help sooner than I did. Perhaps I would be equipped with the answers to be able to deal with the way I feel now.

But I believe that these feelings are a message. My body is trying to tell me that something in my life isn’t right and I need to address it. It's forcing me to stop and search myself for answers. It encouraging me to look at my inner life and free myself from the things that were preventing me from expressing my full being.
And that scares me.