THE STRANGER

Sitting cross legged I watched as the girl in front of me did the same. Dark hair, pale skin. An apathetic expression, the truth only reveled by forlorn eyes.

I stared at her for a while, blinking. A total stranger.

But I was sitting in front of a mirror.

I fought my way through a hell of a lot of shit to get here. Dragging myself out of a seemingly endless pit of despair and misery to be able to begin functioning like a normal human again. There are countless people to help you with your recovery from mental illness; if you're willing to accept the help there's someone from every step of the way, but when it comes to the end of that path, what do you do then?

I have become a stranger in my own body. 

The very concept of recovery is to be able to go back to the person you once were before you were consumed by your demons, but what happens when you've completely lost yourself? I can't remember who I used to be, so who exactly am I expected to go back to?

This, of course, offers a great opportunity to become who I've always wanted to be, to use my experiences to grow and learn and possibly help others. And that all sounds lovely, but it's fucking terrifying.

To seemingly invent an entire persona. But isn't that what I've been doing all along? Faking happy to appease the world around me whilst my head was fucked beyond belief and I felt like I was drowning in a sea of apathy.

Of course, I am so much more than any illness. I'm the books I read and the music I love, I'm my friends and family, I'm heartbreak and elation and misery and content-ness. Everything that has ever happened to me, everything I've ever felt, everyone I've ever met has shaped me in some way. So by that idea I shouldn't shy away from my suffering, it's been such a huge part of my life that it would be silly to do so, but instead embrace the lessons I've learned, welcome the strength I've gained and continue building myself into the person I want to be.

And now, just a month away from being discharged from mental health services, it's become alarmingly apparent that at the end of it I won't be recovered. In my mind, being discharged always meant that I would be a new, improved person. That I'd no longer be troubled by my anxiety or depression. The reality is that I won't be 'fixed', I will continue to struggle every day, the difference being that I'm now in a place to continue to get better and push myself into doing things that would have once made me resign to my bed for days on end.

I have the opportunity to now become someone new. I don't want to go back to the person I was before anxiety and depression strangled the life out of me because now I can use those experiences to shape my future. It's made me stronger, more tolerant, I have a greater understanding of mental illness and I'm significantly more compassionate.

The person I once was doesn't exist anymore so it would be impossible to go back to her, recovery is about progression, and that's entirely what I intend to do.

- ALL WORDS ARE MY OWN / IMAGE VIA UNSPLASH