Again and Again and Again. (relapsing)

I relapsed again. I lost count of how many times now. It feels like every time I get a little better, every time I make a plan or a promise to myself, I end up breaking it. I fall back into old habits, old thoughts, old pain. And every time I do, the voice in my head gets louder: You’re a failure. You’re weak. You don’t deserve to get better.

People love to say, “Relapse is part of recovery.” But honestly, that feels like a hollow platitude when you’re in the middle of it—when you're waking up and barely able to move, physically and emotionally, because everything hurts. Mental illness weighs on you. Chronic pain adds its own crushing layer. And the shame? That wraps around everything else like a vice.

I’ve tried. Therapy, medication, meditation, diet changes, exercise when I can manage it—but nothing sticks. Nothing fixes me. And some days, like today, I question if I’ll even be here next year. It’s a quiet, hopeless kind of feeling. Not a dramatic cry for help, just a dull question: What’s the point?

Because the truth is, relapsing makes me feel like a bad person. Not just someone who’s struggling—but someone who keeps making the same mistakes, hurting the few people who care, wasting time, wasting life. I feel broken, like I'm watching the world go on without me, and I’m stuck in the same dark loop, again and again.

And the worst part? I don’t know if I have it in me to keep trying.