I’m trying so hard to remember that recovery is not a straight line. I’ve worked with addicts in the past, and I can’t even count how many times I’ve said “recovery isn’t a straight line,” and “relapse is a part of recovery.” It’s a lot harder to apply that wisdom to myself.
I got sick when I was pregnant. Then I started to get better. Then we moved, and my depression relapsed to the point where I was suicidal again. Then I started to get better. And now I’ve relapsed yet again, this time in the form of horrible anxiety. Like feeling blind terror ALL THE TIME. I’m taking medicine for it now, which makes me feel a little drugged, but turns down the volume on the terror.
But there’s still this feeling that I’ve failed, that I’m failing, that this means I won’t get better. Because every time I start to get better, I relapse and get sick again. It’s hard to see any progress. I guess the fact that I’m not currently suicidal is progress of a sort. It seems like a small and basic thing, and it’s hard to give myself any credit for it, but I guess in the end it really is progress.
I’m trying not to give up hope. I’m clutching and clawing for hope of some kind. This is hard. This is really, really hard.