The Chasm in my Chest

Once again I find myself being swallowed up by the darkness which feels ten times darker since I had been recovering so well and so swiftly only a month ago.  I have begun to ride on crests of panic and troughs of depression and all the while I can’t believe I am back here again.

I suppose it was being home that really contributed to the relapse. Being back in a place that hasn’t changed even though I have, where people aren’t sure who you are anymore so they treat you the same as before. All of a sudden old thought patterns and behaviours begin to reassert themselves and they take hold. It was the endless spiralling thoughts that were the worst. It was like it was a year ago and all I could think about was the relationship I had been in and then panic and desperation began to eat away at my new confidence. The endless stream of negative thinking reasserted itself and try though I might, I couldn’t disrupt it.

Part of the problem was that the support I had built for myself was thousands of miles away. I was able to go to some CrossFit boxes nearby and for those hour long sessions, the thoughts stopped and it was again just me and the WOD. Outside of the box it all started up again as though I had only pushed the pause button.

When I returned to uni it was only for a few days and I left again to travel around Scandinavia and Europe. My days were filled with all the things that make me happy. Exploring different cities, seeing new places, meeting and speaking with people, trying new foods, practicing other languages, and navigating new terrain. The days were perfect. I didn’t feel alone enveloped with the happiness of each new experience. But then the day would inevitably give way to night and I would make my way back to my room and then I would be alone. The stark contrast to the fulfilment I had during the day with the emptiness that came at night was like a punch in the stomach.

I tried explaining the feeling of intense emptiness to a friend.

“It’s like a giant chasm is in my chest. It’s like that scene in Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade where he is standing on the edge of that huge bottomless pit. It’s like that pit is in my chest, it’s empty and it’s physically very painful.”

When I finally came back to uni and I had nothing to look forward to but a research paper and the uncertain future. I crashed. I had two days until my therapy appointment and I felt like I couldn’t handle the extremes in thoughts. It was in that moment that I reached out to some friends on Facebook. It was like sending an SOS from a sinking ship. I was lucky to receive some immediate responses and encouragement; enough to spur me on to begin work on a PhD proposal and to make it through to my appointment.

As I sat there, crying and revealing past trauma that I had only just begun to recognise, the progress I had made over May and June felt like a joke my mind had played on me. It was as though I hadn’t been getting better at all. My frustrations with personal relationships exploded several times and I realised how angry I’ve been feeling. Angry because how I am today is the result of emotional abuse and the psychological trauma of an assault.

This isn’t who I was supposed to be.

My therapist couldn’t give me definitive answers; he couldn’t give me specific tasks that would get me on the right path to finding a meaningful relationship with someone. I was adamant. If I didn’t feel like I was making progress, I wouldn’t be able to function. I needed to feel like I was doing something to get better. He gave me some things to work on and though that should have been my last appointment, I made another for the following week.

It seems that we really are the sum of our experiences. Our interactions with others shape our thoughts and feelings and they have the power to cause immense pleasure or debilitating suffering. In the darkest moments it is often difficult to remember the light. It seems that the whole world has always been dark and always will be. I find it almost impossible to remember what I felt like only a month ago. I find it difficult to remember what my days felt like while I was in Europe. It’s only the intense isolation I seem to be capable of recalling. Depression truly is a bastard. It robs you of your good memories. It tries to destroy them. Soon you don’t even feel like fighting it anymore. And I think for today, I need to just accept a defeat. I am hopeful that tomorrow will bring the light again.