Today was another good day. Until I got home.
My dad came inside and started slamming doors.
Then he said “we can’t do everything alone so I need someone to come out here and help me or I’m going to burn this fucking house down.”
Since I knew he was mad I was hiding in the bathroom because that’s a safe place for me. Then he says that.
Then my sister goes on a rant because we had a great day and we got home and were told that.
Now I’m hiding in the darkness of my own room debating on if I should pack up more of my shit or make it harder and cuddle with all my stuffed animals because honestly that’s the only way I see myself coping right now.
I have half my room packed already. Every time this happens I pack a little more and more.
Now I’ve relapsed again. I made it 25 days.
I know. Count the clean days. Relapse is a part of recovery.
The metaphor for my life is like picking a scab- it won’t heal if you keep picking at it. While living in this house I have no hope anymore. I have no hope of getting out. No hope of staying clean.
I talk about my issues too much. Maybe I should just shut up.
There’s no hope for me. I’m too weak to live.