  I yearn for this post to have some engagement, to be meaningful to another in some way, whilst already knowing it won’t because I’ll waffle on for too long and I’ll blabber about my weird quirks that no one else could possibly relate to. I began “recovering” from my mental state a few months or so ago when I realised that no other human being can truly understand the mind of another, that no person could say or do anything that would truly help. I gave up on seeking comfort or comraderies and realised I could on rely on myself. For a while, it was freeing. Trying to *force* others to understand me and being met with concrete stares and platitudes that I couldn’t relate to had been making me feel even more alienated and detached from the default human experience. 

This was something I was sort of taught in DBT. I say *sort of* because I propelled it to its most extreme conclusion. I was taught that another human being cannot say or do anything that would relieve my mental anguish. That I shouldn’t have those expectations of people. I decided I would never talk to anyone about my mental health again. I was single and living alone after a *very* rough breakup. I had been trying to force pretty much anyone to spend time with me so that I wouldn’t be alone with my thoughts. I was a grubby motel receptionist welcoming temporary acquaintances through a revolving door. These acquaintances wouldn’t mind that the motel was dirty, seedy, and falling apart for a little while – especially if they’d only arrived for sex. But they would soon tire of it and the motel would be empty for a while until the next forlorn character stumbled across it. 

I had no concept of boundaries, and my life was frankly disgusting. I remember my sister screaming at me to stop doing drugs. I remember the uncomfortable shuffling of my mum on my 24th birthday as I hysterically cried for hours, even whilst eating my birthday cake. I went to sleep at 4pm, alone, and woke up at 5pm in anxious fit. My only true friend came round a bit later and bought me fish and chips and I realised in that moment I brought so much of my pain onto myself; why hadn’t I made plans with her sooner? 

On my 25th birthday my only true friend was there for me again and it was okay, but in the days that followed I cried and cried and vowed not to be existing in this miserable, heart-wrenching and mind-racking way on my 26th birthday. 

On my 26th birthday last November, I had ‘turned things around’. Four real friends joined me for drinks, and my sister. I laughed and I felt grateful. I’d lost weight and I looked good. I felt safe. I met my current boyfriend that night. I went for dinner with my family the following day and felt deeply loved by the gifts they’d bought me. I had declared sometime before, to my sister, that I wasn’t depressed anymore. I meant it but, looking back, I had been having fitful, distressing evenings of not being able to do anything and just laying in bed staring at my phone only a few weeks prior to this declaration. 

I don’t know what to expect on my 27th birthday. My mental state is deteriorating and has been for months. I can’t relax. My muscles are tense, and I’m bombarded with traumatic memories. I contemplate the inevitability of death a lot and the meaninglessness of existence. Each day feels both the same and wildly unpredictable. My chronic pain has worsened to the point most days it really, really hurts just to exist. The tests reveal that I’m perfectly healthy so I must be doing this to myself with my ruminating and self-torment. I think constantly about the brief periods of peace and relief I had over the winter. I wonder if they were a cruel anomaly or if that’s an attainable state of mind for me. I love my boyfriend so much but sometimes I can’t bear to be around him. He wants to go on holidays with me and I don’t know if I can bear the stress of it all, of the change of routine and being away from my cats and my comforts. Even though I don’t feel comfortable at all at home; I feel trapped, claustrophobic, and afraid. Most days I don’t feel connected to reality at all but it’s not a detached numbness, it’s frightening and unsettling and disturbing. My mind wants to stay in bed for days and days but if I break my routine the disconnection from my reality becomes unbearable. Besides, laying in bed makes everything hurt after only short a while and if I stay in bed for too long the consequences on my chronic pain can be so severe that the inertia will prevent me from doing the smallest chore. 

I ‘have it together’ more than I ever have in my life. My relationship is stable, I can make and attend – some – plans with friends, I’ve even started a regular, productive hobby for the first time in my life, ever. I can keep the house clean and I can exercise every couple of days. I’m not slicing my thighs and arms to pieces and I’m not relying on drugs to get me out of bed at 3pm every day. But I’ve gained weight again and I’m cancelling plans more often again and I’m abusing my own prescriptions more again and I’m finding it harder and harder to get of the house again. I felt like I’m on teetering on the brink of ‘recovery’ from my darkest mental state, but on the other side of the brink I’m teetering on is the deepest pit of despair and anguish I’ve ever encountered, much more frightening than even the most terrifying ones I’ve fallen into before. I don’t know which way I’m going to fall.