I hit my 10 week milestone today. 10 weeks since I’ve felt that cold blade cut against my skin. 10 weeks since I’ve seen the blood run down my legs. 10 weeks today. It’s crazy isn’t?
10 weeks. That’s 70 days, 1,680 hours, 100,800 minutes and 6,048,000 seconds. All those numbers but what do they add up to? Am I supposed to be better? Am I supposed to forget?
To be honest, I miss it. I miss that cure. I miss the feeling of my skin ripping open and the red spewing out. It was like my own medicine. A relief.
A relief from all those thoughts rushing through my head. Never ending thoughts.
“Kill yourself”
“You’re not good enough”
“He hates you”
“They don’t love you”
The constant thoughts running through my head get so exhausting, sometimes I miss that medicine I used to give myself.
Some say recovery is easy. Yet the ones who recover or are recovered from this drug know it’s no where near easy. It’s a constant battle in your head. It’s sitting there with the blade in your hand yelling at yourself “don’t do it, it’s not worth it” The thoughts are so overpowering.
“Do it”
“You’ll feel better”
“You’re only worth this”
“Destroy yourself”
It’s a constant battle everyday. Some say recovery is easy. But for me, recovering from this is the hardest fucking thing I’ve had to.
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Author:
hapadalecki (
Offline) - Published: April 2nd, 2022 00:58
- Comment from author about the poem: This poem is about fighting the urge to relapse while recovering from one of the hardest coping mechanisms there is. If there’s anyone that reads this and is struggling, know it does get better and you’re so much more worthy than you ever tell yourself.
- Category: Sad
- Views: 46
Offline)
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