The thing about Mental Illness, I find, is that I can temporarily forget about it’s existence, it’s toxic occupation of my brain. I can have a few ‘good’ days; days where I manage to eat well, walk the dog twice, help people. I might then think I don’t need to take the Diazepam I’ve been prescribed, and that I can stay up beyond 10pm without consequence, that I can cope with ‘life’ and the random events it throws my way.
And then I find myself on the bedroom floor (because it always feels so much safer on the floor), tearful, breathing too quickly, itching as though there were an infestation of insects crawling under my skin. There’s a constant, yammering, internal dialogue in my head; I want to revert to my default coping strategies, be destructive, but I also want to keep my end of a deal I have with the healthcare professionals who are bending over backwards to try and help me, I want to meet them halfway.
In a nutshell, this thing, this sick mind of mine, has slapped me across the face again.
So today I’m employing some self-care techniques. I’m taking my Diazepam as prescribed again, I’m staying in my bedroom as much as possible, listening to music, I have drawings to work on and a couple of jigsaws to open. And if all else fails, I’ll climb under my duvet and find something to watch on Netflix while I doze the afternoon away.