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Tuesday November 16^th 8:55 PM: Relapse

I hit send and put my cell phone on my desk, waiting for a response. My message had been short and to the point: “I'm an awful person”. It was true I was an awful person. I let this happen. It's all my fault. I feel so disgusted with myself that I feel like I might puke here in the middle of my room. My train of though is silenced by the vibrating of my cell indicating that Ellen had texted me back.

“What happened?” I took a deep breath and relived what had happened only moments ago.

“It all happened so fast, I was cleaning up a broken mirror in my closet and the next thing I know I'm dragging a piece of glass across my hand. I saw the blood and my heart dropped. One thing lead to another, and I've got two on my hip. I don't know how I fucking let this happen. It was all so fast, over in a minute. I'm an awful person. An awful monster.” I hit send and shut my eyes. Self-hatred washed over me. I hated this feeling more than any trigger or panic attack. My phone vibrated.

“Shit. No. Fuck you, you're not. You slipped up and for one second gave in. That doesn't make you a monster- it makes you human. /tackleglomp.” I sighed. This is why I loved having Ellen as a friend. Sometimes you just need someone who's not afraid to say “Fuck you” and tell you the truth. I typed my response.

“One second was all it took for me to fuck up 2 months of resistance. 2 months may seem like nothing, but not when you think about the fact that I've never gone longer than 4. I'm at fucking square 1 again. There wasn't even a fucking trigger! It...I...Too fast...didn't think...just happened. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck. I forgot how much relapsing sucks.” I hit send and waited. I let my language go wild in the last text. It was all I could do to let my rage out. I wanted to break something, I wanted to smash my hands into the broken glass that was still in my closet. I wanted to scream at the top of my lunges and tear at my hair. I just wanted to do something to get my mind off of what just happened. My phone vibrated.

“You're fine, love. It's over. It'll heal and two months will go by again. Time heals everything, even if it hurts in the process.” I sighed again. I knew she was right, she's always right. It was over, and time would definitely heal all the pain. I decided to send her another text, just to rant in hopes of feeling better.

“**sigh x10** I just don't want to go through this again. I really don't. I know I have to, but I'm about this close to saying 'fuck going sober'. I know that's the easy way, the weak way. Honestly that's all I feel capable of right now. And I know I can do so much better.” I shut my phone and signed onto Facebook. Seeing that Ellen was online, I immediately IM'ed her. We talked for an hour or so, and I was starting to feel much better. Another thing I love about having Ellen as a friend is that no matter how crappy your day is, it always feels better to talk to her about it. I decided to go to bed early that night, for I knew that tomorrow would be hell. I shut off my computer and lights, and climbed into bed.

Wednesday November 17^th 5:45 AM: Day 1

Beep beep beep...BEEP BEEP BEEP. I awoke with a jolt and shut off my alarm. Every part of me wanted to curl under the covers and die. I somehow got my ass out of bed and into the bathroom to take a shower. I hopped in and let the scorching water cascade over my tired muscles. Grabbing my loofah and body wash, I started to wash my body methodically. When I got to my right hip, I just stared at it. Among the midst of dozens of silvery scars lived two small, fresh cuts. One was shallow, obviously the first from last night. The other was deeper, angrier. As I looked at the cuts, a fresh wave of hatred and disgust racked my body. I finished up in the shower and went back into my room to get dressed. I put on some music as I tried to decide what I was going to wear. I finally chose a pair of baggy jeans, a random Chicago sweatshirt I found in my dresser, and my converse. I pulled my dripping hair into a messy bun knowing that I looked like shit, but not caring in the slightest. Walking to the bus stop, I felt hollow and nauseas. I took my usual seat next to my friend Katherine, and received a text from my other friend, Harini. As Katherine talked to me about whatever, I stared at the seat ahead of me. She could tell I wasn't listening, but I tried to smile anyways. The smile, I imagine, looked as painful as it was to achieve it. The bus dropped us off at school, and I made my way to ceramics. There was always something comforting about the ceramics room. Maybe it was the wafting scent of clay, or how peaceful it was in the morning and how no one bothered you while you were working. I got out my project and my Ipod and started working to the sound of angsty teen awfulness. After ceramics was English where we were supposed to be working on our short stories. 90 minutes later and I barely had the first paragraph. Next was Study Hall where I sat there with my Ipod blaring more crappy music and my sanity rotting away. Lunch was just as bad. I took two bites of my PB&J and almost ran over to the trash can to vomit. My stomach had seemingly ganged up with my brain to hate me. Next was Spanish. The last thing I needed was an overenthusiastic, chubby Spaniard telling me how useful it would be to not drop her class. All in Spanish, no less. Fast forward a bit until I got home. I dropped my stuff on the kitchen table, and made a beeline to my room. I kicked off my shoes, crawled into bed and started sobbing. My stomach twisted into knots and the ever familiar feeling of nausea caused me to dry-heave a few times. I eventually fell asleep. About an hour later, I awoke to the phone ringing. Too groggy to process what was happening, I just layed in bed as the memory of the day seeped back into my mind. I crawled out of bed and replaced my jeans with my comfiest sweatpants and put on my slippers. My computer was still running, and I signed on to my Penzu account. Staring at the empty page, I started to write out my feelings. Or, at least I tried to write out my feelings. One line later, I gave up and turned on some more angst-filled music. Sitting at my desk, I closed my eyes and tried to clear my mind. I concentrated on my breathing and, if only for a second, I felt completely at peace. That is until I heard my mom enter through the garage and call out my name. Exiting my room, I looked at myself in my mirror for the first time that day. My dark brown eyes were lifeless and extra dark. They seemed to have sunken further into my skull and held a glazed look of monotony. My usual tanned complexion was pale and lacked my natural blush. Instead there were dark circles under my eyes, and my cheeks were somewhat puffier than normal. My hair looked like a rat's nest and was falling out of the messy bun. I clomped down the stairs and made usual conversation with my mom for a minute or so. Back in my room, I noticed the shard of glass had been left on top of my dresser. Looking at my crude weapon only brought rage to course through my veins. I grabbed the shard and flung it across the room never wanting to see it again. Finally feeling something besides disgust, I logged back on to Penzu and began to write. I wrote out my rage until tears flowed down my cheeks and I felt exhausted. Looking at what I wrote, I felt a presence of hope. Even though things were awful right now, and words couldn't describe my emotions towards myself, tomorrow would be better. I wiped away the tears and started writing one more thing. Fifteen minutes later, I re-read what I wrote:

2 months. Gone.

It's all fucked, gone to shit, tossed down the drain.

Turned to dust and scattered in the wind.

Shattered like the mirror that was my demise.

It feels like life just kicked me down.

Laughed in my face.

Made me believe I could do this, made me work to achieve something.

Then took it all away.

The hope, the drive, the sense of wellbeing, the acceptance of it all.

Everything.

Gone.

But I'll forgive and forget.

I'll get back up, move on, find my strength, and finish what I started.

Even if it means fighting my impulses day and night, sobbing into pillows, and becoming terrified of my own capabilities.

I can do this.

So now with a broken heart and a bandaged hip, I walk into the terrifying unknown with one thing in mind.

What doesn't kill me makes me stronger.