I am tired of constantly talking about my recovery, but much like addicts – we’re always in recovery.
Reading my mother’s texts still gives me no small degree of anxiety, the idea of seeing my biological family is enough to give me shivers down my spine and I just want to scream into a pillow because I’m so, so frustrated with them. To be honest, I’m more frustrated with myself and that never is a good thing.
Last night, as much I dislike having to pop a Klonopin before bed – I took one voluntarily because I felt the edge of a panic attack. I was going to hyperventilate. I didn’t want that at all. Sure, it knocked me out within half an hour and I sleepily had a serious conversation with my boyfriend but the anxiety lives on. I’m still afraid. It’s been a month and I’m still afraid and I’m still recovering. I hate that the recovery is taking longer than I feel it should.
I actually managed to film a VLOG in honour of hitting 150+ followers on my FB page.
Recovery is taking longer. I hate it. I hate all of it. Recovery has been so difficult and even though I can look back to the person I was a month ago, the one who tried to kill herself and I can see that I’m different now, I’m better now – I still hate it. Recovery is hard.
I can only thank all the people who have been helping me on the way. It’s been a long crawl up and I know I’ve been through worse. I can do this. It’s just going to be another journey to recovery.