Recovery. I always (somewhat naively) thought recovery would be a process whereby my mind would slowly return to sensible thought patterns and a gradual reduction in the usual anxietal and emotional outbursts to, well, pretty much anything. I’ve read numerous books about depression where the author charts their rise from utter hellish blackness into a perfectly normal life once again. I am beginning to feel these accounts are either a) lies b) wishful thinking c) lies.
Recovery from depression (anxiety, or whatever the hell my problem is, I see a clinical psych this month so maybe some actual insight into a label will come) seems far more akin to recovery from alcoholism. It is always there, waiting, whispering in your ear. You don’t get rid of it, but learn techniques to ignore it, to pretend its not there, whispering in your ear, until like an alcoholic, you just learn to live with the siren song and accept that you will always be fighting it off. It becomes so much of a habit that it gets easier, but weak moments test you, they can set you straight back to square one.
I do wonder sometimes, if I’m just fooling myself, if I’ll ever be free of these reactions to things, these emotions that grip me in their clawed fingers and no matter how much I chant the logic mantras, hang onto me, and leave me miserable and exhausted with fear. I am learning techniques to avoid falling into their grasp, but once they have me, I seem to be helpless. I’m a lost cause. It’s a lot like trying to ride a wild horse. You don’t – you just learn how to hang on, how to not fall off and break your neck.
I was expecting more somehow.