recovery.

I’m stuck. 
I don’t sleep for more than 3 hours if I’m lucky anymore.
I watch the sunrise as I lie in my bed, 
Make myself a coffee, 
Read a few pages of a book, 
And fall asleep at around 10:30,
I wake at 2:30,
And am too tired to move from my bed all day.
I have no energy to go out with my friends.
I’m running out of excuses.
I can’t tell them the truth
That I’m too depressed to get out of bed,
That I’m too tired to move,
That I haven’t eaten more than 3 sticks of celery in the past 9 days.
I thought I was getting better.
Until one day I found myself faking myself smile again.
That was the day I have feared since day one of recovery.
That’s the thing about depression,
It creeps up on you,
Without any warning.
One day you’re happy,
And the next you’re not;
For what feels like forever.
I thought I was beginning to love my body,
My face,
Until one day I looked at myself in the mirror,
Fully naked.
I hadn’t done that since I began recovering.
I noticed all of my flaws,
Everything that was wrong with me.
It reminded me of why I first began this mess.
I cried for 3 days straight,
The covers over my head,
The darkness surrounded me.
My mother cried on the side of my bed on the second day,
Begging me to leave my bed,
To eat soup,
To drink juice.
I ignored her as she pleaded.
I heard the pain in my mother’s cries.
I only wear clothes that don’t show my body now a days.
I paint the makeup on my face,
In hopes to cover up the pale face,
And dark sunken in eyes.
Help me.
I can’t seem to swim long enough.
My arms get tired,
And I give up.
I let the water consume me.
I let myself drown.
People keep jumping in the water,
But I keep swimming further out,
Isolating myself.
Convincing everyone I can swim.
I can’t. 
My anxiety is never ending.
I used to be able to control my anxiety.
I used to be okay,
Until I broke down.
I used to be able to manage them by cleaning,
By crying in my bedroom for an hour and being 
Okay 
Afterwards.
But now, 
Now it’s always there;
When I’m on the bus, at home, in public, in the car,
Everywhere.
I’m a complete mess,
And I fear that I will always be,
That I will never get better,
That I will never be okay for a long period of time,
Ever again.
It is the scariest feeling in the world.
I’m lost.
I don’t recognize the person in the mirror.
I look at my eyes,
And they’re black and empty.
They’re as black as the bags under my eyes.
I don’t know who the person staring back is.
She looks at me,
Numbly,
Emotionlessly.
She’s empty.