I’ve discovered a fun new side effect of having your heartbroken, that open wound goes after all your scars, all the things you’ve been working so hard to keep closed. The broken heart talks to them, convinces them to reopen and wreak havoc on your fragile self even more. Your depression that you’ve been handling, coming off the antidepressants, the monster that’s been dormant in your brain for months slowly but surely, making sure his presence becomes known. You know it in the ways you stop washing your hair regularly and your skincare routine falls to shit. It becomes known in the way that you don’t sing along obnoxiously loud to your favourite music, and the way that you start binge-watching TV even though you've always hated it.
If you thought the depression monster was alone then you were very wrong, he’s brought some friends, but you know them don’t you? The familiar faces of your anxiety and eating disorders beckon you to them, their familiarity masked as comfort. The comfort of past habits enveloping you into their warmth, but it’s not warmth. It’s the opposite. It’s the shackles you tried so hard to escape, being placed on you in the moments where you don’t even notice because all you can feel is the pain in your chest and the brokenness that pulls at every atom of your being.
Eventually, you notice all these things, but you don’t acknowledge them, because acknowledging them makes it real doesn’t it? And if it’s real then how do you even begin to try escaping again?
So what now? Now you start doing the things you’d always shunned. You start having random hook-ups and hanging around dodgy people doing dodgy things. You try weed because rather be high than low right? You lie to your friends, knowing that they’ll see through your bullshit, but you try anyway.