My throat tightened as my doctor looked with pity and said the words, “cope and function”. My hands clenched and I held my breath as I processed those three words. COPE. AND. FUNCTION.
There’s a fear that goes through you when you are told that the end goal is to give you tools to help you cope and function. Nothing more can really be done. You’re lost. Too broken.
I frowned before looking up and into her watery eyes. I took a heavy sigh as I let the truth of my diagnosis sink in.
Growing up I knew my life was different but I believed that good things were on the horizon. I believed that once I left that house I would suddenly be rid of the dark demon that filled me.
Physically, yes. I couldn’t be pushed into furniture or held down. Emotionally, well that is a different story.
For all these years I have lived with dirt under my fingernails as I stumble, struggle and crawl my way out of the hole.
My version of recovery is not at all possible. My version doesn’t have me taking 14 odd pills a day. My version doesn’t involve being lonely. It doesn’t have me rocking myself to sleep or becoming so upset that my hands shake.
So, as my doctor gravely said those three words I realised that I’m not the survivor I thought I was. I’m still very much living in the depths of that hole where there is only a small light to be seen while looking up. And the worst part of it is that I feel like I’m alone.
I haven’t given up but I really need to see some more of that fucking light.