I was afraid. I was afraid of a relapse into the dark corner that I had hidden myself for the past three years. I was afraid of letting anyone in, I was afraid of not letting anyone in. I didn’t know what to think or do. I was just afraid.
I was trying so hard to continue my diet, but I had a relapse. I found every debbie cake my cousin had in her room and ate them all. I laid there in disgust.
The smell of the place raced into her blood. She couldn’t get enough of it. It filled her entire body. Her soul. The rust. The dirt. The drugs. Sweet relapse. It was worth it. Worth it to come home.
She spent an afternoon living her life, this meant siting by the plaza fountain dining on little cafe sandwiches, basking in the sun and sound of water trickling past like bustling foot steps and snippets of conversations. Soon she dropped in at the coffee house for an after lunch pick me up before heading to the bookstore, which would eventually lead her to the library, all this while meeting strangers along the way as she tried to articulate why life was enjoyable even though it was full of uncertainty and any manner of aches or pains. At the flower shop, however, she almost lost her happy-go-lucky outlook.
The red hibiscus in the window became a memory of the life she had planned to return to some day.
A deep pang of regret shuddered through her shoulders. A man near the barber shop couldn’t help but be drawn to her anguish, so potent and palapable was it. He asked what was wrong, but she shook her head, as if to say, “no, really, right now I’m fine.” All she managed to say was “I’m just waiting on a call from my doctor’s office.”
It was an inevitability. The cold steel of regret burned against my fever high skin. One more day would have been a year. I couldn’t do it though. I just couldn’t. It was calling to me, it just felt so good. It’s soft, bronzen bun, sweet carmalized onions and melted cheese. I needed a burger.
Perhaps old scars still ache from time to time. If only he didn’t unearthed his journal from five years ago, the memory of her wouldn’t even relapse in such an ungodly hour of the night.
I started out in bed with a warm empty mug, the coffee was dripping down my throat and I laid quietly in the bedsheets waiting for the sun to rise and my girlfriend to wake up because in a few moments I’d here the deep parts of my belly begin to rumble.
Imagine a world where there were no consequences. Where you could fulfil your heart’s desire as no one would know – or care. When she imagined such a place, it became easier. Slipping into a silent fog of imagined forgiveness. there, she could give in, relax, relapse and accept her wildest dreams – dreams of a life she had once, so briefly touched, and then desperately denied.
She thought she’d gotten over it. It had been 10 years since the last time, and she’d been through countless sessions of therapy, countless medications and acupuncture appointments and well-meaning friends telling her about vitamins and herbal teas. But now, here she was, and there was a ghost staring at her from halfway inside her walls, and she was relapsing. 10 years.
She’d heard about withdrawal, but no one really had words to describe the dull ache spreading in her chest. None of her friends had warned about the insistent cravings and bouts of crying fits that left her clinging to her pillow, whispering his name over and over. They said it takes thirty days to form a new habit, or lose an old one. He called on day eleven, and she hadn’t built up the strength to say ‘no’.
I must always guard myself from relapsing into depression. I keep myself from relapse by continuing to plant good thoughts into my mind, and by keeping my words positive.
That is a really scary fucking word. I had to actually pause and for a moment there I was remindind that I was human. I felt vulnerable. I felt that more than ever it is so damn important that I stay on top of my shit. And I just realized I am making myself to sound like a recovering drug addict, im not, I mean , never was, just I have made my way from some habits that id rather not repeat.
A relapse is something that supposedly happen to people who are mentally in a bad, bad place. But how do they get there to begin with? And maybe they never left where they were to begin with and just faked being ‘better’.
He was kissing her neck and she sank into him. “This is probably not a great idea” her head said to her. For once she didn’t listen. She didn’t care he had hurt her. She didn’t care he had left. He was her drug and that was all there was to it. She woke with a start and a general feeling of uncleanliness. She shook her head of the dream and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Never. Again.
I was afraid. I was afraid of a relapse into the dark corner that I had hidden myself for the past three years. I was afraid of letting anyone in, I was afraid of not letting anyone in. I didn’t know what to think or do. I was just afraid.
I was trying so hard to continue my diet, but I had a relapse. I found every debbie cake my cousin had in her room and ate them all. I laid there in disgust.
The smell of the place raced into her blood. She couldn’t get enough of it. It filled her entire body. Her soul. The rust. The dirt. The drugs. Sweet relapse. It was worth it. Worth it to come home.
She spent an afternoon living her life, this meant siting by the plaza fountain dining on little cafe sandwiches, basking in the sun and sound of water trickling past like bustling foot steps and snippets of conversations. Soon she dropped in at the coffee house for an after lunch pick me up before heading to the bookstore, which would eventually lead her to the library, all this while meeting strangers along the way as she tried to articulate why life was enjoyable even though it was full of uncertainty and any manner of aches or pains. At the flower shop, however, she almost lost her happy-go-lucky outlook.
The red hibiscus in the window became a memory of the life she had planned to return to some day.
A deep pang of regret shuddered through her shoulders. A man near the barber shop couldn’t help but be drawn to her anguish, so potent and palapable was it. He asked what was wrong, but she shook her head, as if to say, “no, really, right now I’m fine.” All she managed to say was “I’m just waiting on a call from my doctor’s office.”
It can be easy to relapse to fall back into the dark place you used to be in. To be so moved to the sameness you tried so hard to break out of.
It was an inevitability. The cold steel of regret burned against my fever high skin. One more day would have been a year. I couldn’t do it though. I just couldn’t. It was calling to me, it just felt so good. It’s soft, bronzen bun, sweet carmalized onions and melted cheese. I needed a burger.
As the timed relapsed the poor ma n just got sicker and sicker. Thank God the doctor finally got here. I never want to go through that relapse again
Perhaps old scars still ache from time to time. If only he didn’t unearthed his journal from five years ago, the memory of her wouldn’t even relapse in such an ungodly hour of the night.
I started out in bed with a warm empty mug, the coffee was dripping down my throat and I laid quietly in the bedsheets waiting for the sun to rise and my girlfriend to wake up because in a few moments I’d here the deep parts of my belly begin to rumble.
I don’t believe relapse is a good word. I reminds me too much of a relapse of cancer. Which is the most terrible sickness ever.
Hearts will eventually relapse back into love. Again and again.
I love to write, but i honestly do not know what this means.
Imagine a world where there were no consequences. Where you could fulfil your heart’s desire as no one would know – or care. When she imagined such a place, it became easier. Slipping into a silent fog of imagined forgiveness. there, she could give in, relax, relapse and accept her wildest dreams – dreams of a life she had once, so briefly touched, and then desperately denied.
When your drink a while after you stopped drinking. Same thing with smoking.
She thought she’d gotten over it. It had been 10 years since the last time, and she’d been through countless sessions of therapy, countless medications and acupuncture appointments and well-meaning friends telling her about vitamins and herbal teas. But now, here she was, and there was a ghost staring at her from halfway inside her walls, and she was relapsing. 10 years.
She’d heard about withdrawal, but no one really had words to describe the dull ache spreading in her chest. None of her friends had warned about the insistent cravings and bouts of crying fits that left her clinging to her pillow, whispering his name over and over. They said it takes thirty days to form a new habit, or lose an old one. He called on day eleven, and she hadn’t built up the strength to say ‘no’.
I must always guard myself from relapsing into depression. I keep myself from relapse by continuing to plant good thoughts into my mind, and by keeping my words positive.
That is a really scary fucking word. I had to actually pause and for a moment there I was remindind that I was human. I felt vulnerable. I felt that more than ever it is so damn important that I stay on top of my shit. And I just realized I am making myself to sound like a recovering drug addict, im not, I mean , never was, just I have made my way from some habits that id rather not repeat.
A relapse is something that supposedly happen to people who are mentally in a bad, bad place. But how do they get there to begin with? And maybe they never left where they were to begin with and just faked being ‘better’.
He was kissing her neck and she sank into him. “This is probably not a great idea” her head said to her. For once she didn’t listen. She didn’t care he had hurt her. She didn’t care he had left. He was her drug and that was all there was to it. She woke with a start and a general feeling of uncleanliness. She shook her head of the dream and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Never. Again.
Relapse