That Funny Feeling.

Being alone scares me; always has and I fear it always will. I struggle to sit alone because sometimes my own worst enemy is inside my head. For the last few weeks, she has come back stronger than ever, louder than ever. She is tormenting my mind with her cruelty and all I can do is sit and wait until she stops. I don’t like admitting when it gets too much. I get embarrassed how I always talk the big talk on surviving yet, every day is a struggle. I try and wake up and do the things I need to do, but sometimes, the world holds too much weight for me to move. I can’t think on my own. I can’t eat, sleep, get up for most days. I’ve always had someone by my side, but now, I’m a big girl and I have to do it on my own.

Giving in doesn’t mean giving up. She was in my head infecting me with her words and I couldn’t do it. So, I’ve quietened her with help from my trustworthy pills. Being medicated again is a strange feeling. I feel like I’ve lost the battle I’ve been fighting for so long. I’ve went backwards rather than forward. I couldn’t do it on my own and I have to rely on medication to help me. It screamed weakness at the start. How can others learn to be with me if I can’t be with myself?

The first time I went on medication, it was the last attempt. I was stepping into the unknown and hope that it would help. After I came off them, I told myself that I was better again. But that’s not how it works. The second time, it’s scarier. You think you’ve learned to sit with that funny feeling in your stomach, but it’s making you sick. Everyday you wake up nauseous and anxious, unable to leave the house. You begin hating the world and think why me? why now? But sometimes, there is no ‘why’, it’s just how it is.

Going back on medication is admitting something within myself that I wasn’t ready to admit. The progress I’ve made in the last four years hasn’t made me immune to the disease that lives inside me. Recovery isn’t a straight line, and even though we fight and do everything we’re supposed to do, we find ourselves back in the same place.

But maybe, I’ve been courageous in some ways.

I listened to my body telling me it wasn’t okay. Which is something that I have never done with ease. I decided that I couldn’t get better on my own and I sought out for what I needed. I’m trying to learn that needing a little help doesn’t define me. It doesn’t mean that I can’t or won’t get better again. It doesn’t take away from the good days, it only means I need a hand on the bad ones. I am not back at the beginning.

This essay is an oath to me. Being on medication doesn’t make me weak, it makes me strong for realising I need the help. Yes, I am frustrated, upset, and a little disappointed that I am back here again, but I’m also hopeful, even if the hope is quiet for now. I am remembering that I too, also deserve to feel better as well as everyone else. Asking for help doesn't make you weak, it's proof you're trying.