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The Illusion of Stability

From February 13th to February 17th, I felt normal. Stable. Five whole days of something that almost resembled peace.

For a brief moment, I let myself believe it. That the new pill had finally kicked in, that maybe—just maybe—this time, things would be different.

But the night of February 17th shattered that illusion.

The Shattered Illusion of Stability

I felt it slipping away—the normal version of me fading like a mirage, dissolving into something darker. And I could do nothing but watch as I spiraled, deeper and deeper, back into the pit I thought I had finally escaped.

I tried reaching out. Called someone. No answer. Tried again. Still nothing.

I was alone.

Work was done for the day. I had nothing to keep my mind occupied. I tried watching Marvel movies—the ones I used to love—but they felt distant, meaningless. My thoughts were racing. A crushing anxiety wrapped around my chest, and I felt like my head was going to explode.

Panic took over.

The Spiral and the Weight of Relapse

I picked up the blade again. A few more cuts and an emoji on my right wrist—some twisted attempt at humor, or maybe a desperate plea. As the blood traced patterns on the floor, a momentary release washed over me.

I turned off every light, stripped off my clothes, and buried myself under the blanket.

And tears started rolling down my cheeks, silently. I cried for what felt like ages.

Everything is falling apart. Again. And I have no way of stopping it. I thought I had gained some control. But I was wrong. I am back to square one.

You are beyond repair. The scars on my skin whisper to me.

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