Recovery in Ten Parts by Jillian Law

Recovery In Ten Parts

1. Sleep will never be my friend again. I envy my friend who falls asleep first at a sleepover, so easily able to shut off her brain and ignore the sound of the TV. My brain can never quite unwind that easily. Even now, three years later, sleep and I are not friends.

2. I heard my mom talking to my dad the other day. She used the phrase “when she was sick” to explain something to my dad about me. It hit me right in the gut, that phrase. I never think of it like that. I didn’t know she did.

3. “When she was sick” implies that she is now better. Like anxiety and depression are colds you can treat with Aspirin, like I still don’t have trouble sleeping or feel like everything is too much some days. It makes it seem like it is in the past tense. My anxiety is not in the past tense. I wish it could be.

4. Some days, I unravel. I can’t sleep and I can’t think and I completely fall apart. Sometimes, it’s more than one day.

5. I saw a movie once where a girl stood on top of a mountain and screamed. Just screamed out her pain and her frustration and her fear. I don’t live near a mountain. I have to settle for a pillow stuffed in my mouth to muffle the screams. Somehow, this isn’t nearly as satisfying.

6. The only thing worse than unraveling is watching people you love unravel. It’s worse than going through your own shit. It’s like watching a car accident you’ve suffered through happen in front of you. You know exactly how to steer the wheel to avoid the collision, but you’re not allowed to drive. You can only watch from your car.

7. I remember, as out of it as I was, begging my mom not to put me in a hospital. I was afraid to go see a doctor because that was what I thought would happen. She convinced me otherwise. Three years later, visiting my dad in the psychiatric ward at Beaumont, I understood why I was so scared.

8. Sometimes, I am endlessly tired. Not just sleep-deprived tired. I am tired of school and tired of hoping and tired of dragging my body around from place to place like any of it matters. Sometimes, I am tired, but I continue on anyways. What else can I do? There is not shortcut to where I want to be.

9. The side of my brain ruled by anxiety tells me, “Give up.” It says, “You will never get where you want to go.” The side of my ruled by depression tells me, “You are worthless, and you are a waste of space. No one really likes you.” I listen sometimes, weighing these opinions, but usually I just tell these sides of my brain, “Fuck you. I have things to do.”

10. When I can’t find big joy in my life, I collect the small ones. I store them up in my head like snapshots. My nephew’s toothless baby smile. Singing thank u, next in the car with two of my best friends, hopelessly out of pitch. Group chats. Movie nights. I survive on the small joys, and I keep hoping for the big ones.