Teetering On The Brink Of Sanity

Or insanity, whichever it is. I am balancing on the fine line between the two.

Less than a month from when I wrote about independence, I have to admit defeat. Next weekend (or sooner if I can arrange it), I am going back to live with my parents.

Since I have come back, a week or so ago, to live here alone, I haven’t lived. I haven’t coped. Tiny anxieties are building up to full blown panics. The flat is presenting me with one hurdle after another. The roof is leaking in several rooms, some of the taps have stopped working and one of the rooms was taken over by moths in my absence. These problems would be minor to most people, but to me they are components of constant worry and fear. When it rains, I can’t go out, because I am worried that on my return the place will be flooded. The landlord doesn’t care. I live in fear.

I have barely left the flat since I have come back. The disruption of my routine has been far more damaging than I imagined it would be. I just can’t do it anymore.  I can’t force myself into and through terrifying situations. Even walking down the stairs has become a gut wrenching experience. The things that caused me some anxiety before have become too fear inducing. On top of that, my depression is still playing the ‘this is pointless’ game. Writing is pointless, going out is pointless, getting out of bed is pointless. You win depression. It is all pointless.

When I was at my parent’s house I did not want to leave. I don’t think there has been a time in the last six years when I have wanted to stay there instead of returning to my own place. It took me days to stir up the courage to leave. Every time I thought about it I became overwhelmed by panic and fear. There were so many things I had wanted to try and fix when I was at my parent’s, but none of that happened. Everything was the same, but now I did not have any false hope. I was terrified of coming back here because I knew I was just a few steps away from disaster. Now I am so close I worry that another week here may be too long.

I am exhausted; physically and mentally. I need a break. I need to wake up in the morning without a weight of worries already on my mind. I have no control over my thoughts. I can’t concentrate. I can’t function. Before my avoidance tactics were at least productive. Now my productivity only extends to playing freecell and eating cake.

I know that once I’m back ‘home’ I will probably regret this decision. Right now, I feel like it is the only thing I can do. I am afraid of myself and I am afraid of the world around me. I need some safety and rest. I have been promised that things will be different. I’m not really expecting this to happen. I understand I am the problem and I am the family member who does not fit. I never thought I would say it, but I need people around me. Maybe not even to talk to or for support, but just to deal with the minor day to day problems that I cannot cope with any more. I am afraid of going home too. I worry about people accidently setting me off in a spiral of tears and self-hate. I am afraid that once I have had a certain amount of recovery time, I will magically be expected to be better, or at least act like I am better.

I suppose that what I am doing is giving up. I just can’t fight anymore. I barely even care if it is giving up. I don’t know how I am ever going to fight the fear again. I want to call it recovering, but I think I might be running away and hiding. I can picture myself living there for years and years now. I do not know how I will ever build up the courage to leave. I feel like I am not just giving up for now, but giving up forever. I’ll be alive, but I won’t be living.

At least this episode of my life will be over. Maybe I can get some rest.