Mental Relapse

I've been doing so good for so long; I won't even reach out to anyone. I don't want people to think that I'm backsliding, or worse, that I never progressed. I don't want anyone to have to see this side of me any longer. Quite honestly, I thought this girl was long gone. Turns out she was just buried shallowly beneath the surface, not quite six feet under.

The truth of the matter is that this is the first time I've felt like using, cutting, drinking, overdosing in almost five months. I mean, yes, I've thought about it, but it was just that - a thought. Somehow this is different; it's determined to become an action.

With the overwhelming feelings I'm having now, it's hard to believe I've been here before. It's hard to believe I've been worse. It's hard to believe it'll ever get better. As much as I hate to admit it, my faith and hope is dwindling..

And now a new rush of emotions consume me. Not only am I angry about a list of other things, now I'm pissed at myself for failing to have the faith that I claim to have - the faith I thought I possessed. So much of me is engulfed with anger right now that all I can do is cry.

I should be praying right now; praying for forgiveness, the strength to forgive - to let it all go, thanking God. I should be reading my Bible - absorbing God's Word, trying to gain answers from Him, seeking wisdom and insight. I should, at the very least, be talking things out with someone, attempting to express my emotions rather than keeping them incarcerated within me, but I'm too afraid to do that. I believe that people will think less of me. The ones that I know won't? I'm afraid that they're sick of dealing with my "bullshit." Even though my episodes have significantly decreased, I'm terrified that one of my breakdowns will trigger them into thinking of me as who I used to be, the same as a familiar song can trigger me into becoming the person I used to be. I don't want bitter tastes to reclaim their mouths at the mention of my name, but is it inevitable? How do they change the second-nature ways they feel about me? That's the same as me not being able to change the second-nature emotions I have towards my mom. No matter what she's done, she's still my mother. Does that mean that no matter what I do I'll always be "Brooke - the rebel, the badass, the addict, the broken one" to everyone else? Lord, I hope not. But I'm afraid, terrified even, that it does.

How do you miss home so badly that it rips a hole in your chest when you have no home? The place people call my home now is where I'm living, and I suppose I call it home as well. It is, and though I know this is where I'm supposed to be, I feel as if I don't belong. What "home" am I yearning for? My mom? My brothers? Mr friends? My school? My old stomping grounds? Habits I thought I'd kicked? When will my new lifestyle take hold? When will this be the home I yearn for?

My anger's taking me over again. Have you ever been so angry that you just started totally flipping out? You have to hit something or bite something or scream or cut or snort a line or drink, drink, drink. That's where I am right now. I just got up to wipe my nose and accidentally glanced into the mirror. My reflection made everything worse, tenfold.

There's no booze here and it's doubtful that the pills downstairs would give me what I'm looking for, but the blade has a similar effect. It wouldn't be hard, really. I have a pack of razors in my room. All I'd have to do is grab one and make my way to the bathroom. With this frustration controlling my every move, it'd be so simple to grab a wad of toilet paper and pull down my sweats. I'd position the blade carefully on my thigh and push down with all my might. A second or two pause - not to second guess my actions but to let the adrenaline do its job. I'd bite my bottom lip as my heart beats faster, faster, faster. Adrenaline high. Then I'd slowly pull the razor against my skin, continuing to add pressure the entire time. Against the pale white, against the fading scars, against the battlefield that's formed on my body over the years. All at once, I'd stop. My heart would slow as the tension seeps out of me - out of the hideous exit I created for it. I'd look, perplexed, as the rip on my leg, watch the crimson fall down my thigh, picture the anger accompanying it. After taking it all in, I'd begin blotching and soaking it up with the toilet paper. It would be difficult to stop the bleeding; every cut has been deep enough for stitches thus far. Then, suddenly, it would hit me: October 25. It's just around the corner and it would be one whole year since I self harmed. I guess that's the reason I don't go right now, pick up a blade, and finish what I already started in my head.

I'm angry at all those little kids sitting on their parents' and grandparents' laps. I'm angry at the people holding them, loving them, hugging them, kissing them. I'm angry at the people who didn't do that for me. I'm angry that no one now is interested. I missed my chance: my childhood and innocence, gone, without my permission. It rips me to shreds to see those kids happy. Does that make me a terrible person? I want what they have. I want someone to love me like that. I don't care if they're blood related or not; I just want to be a little girl again with a second chance - a different family. A lap to fall asleep on, a kiss on the forehead, someone to tuck me in and tell me they love me. I realize this is all gone but it's something I need to grieve and be pissed about. Yes, I understand that I need to accept my losses and move on, but I hate it when someone tells me that's what I need to do before I'm ready - especially when that someone had what I didn't.