recovery

no one ever told me what it would be like if i recovered. i guess they don’t want to tell you this part—you don’t recover. no, you don’t. you get a little better and you get a little worse and you get a little better, and you get a little worse. you grow and then you shrink and you shatter and then you heal. it is a whirlpool i can’t ever stop from moving. sometimes i feel like letting it whirl me away. sometimes i feel like laying down and never getting back up again. sometimes i don’t feel like getting up just to be knocked down.

life fucking sucks when you survive. when your body claws through everything you put it through and lives to tell the tale.

i used to know a lot. a lot of words, a lot of math, a lot of history. oh my god, i used to be so smart. now i keep trying to find it again and it’s like digging my fingernails into bruises. those pills scorched my brain and i’m pulling at the ashes now, and i can’t rebuild what i broke. i just can’t. i destroyed the path behind me. how do i keep building? how do i keep going? how can i possibly mourn for something i fucking killed?

i wish i knew. i wish i could just wake up one day and be how i was before i chose to put those pills in my mouth. i wish i woke up and i was better. i feel like half a person.

i wish recovery was as whole as everyone makes it seem.