The days of ice cube dinners and water lunches
The weeks of thin red strips carved into my wrists
The months of tears dripping into the toilet along with whatever was in my stomach

By the next year I was "recovered"
Now trust me that was not an easy road to get to,
and it was an even harder path to follow.
The red wells on my arms dried up.
My stomach became full
And my mind became clearer but I was still plagued by thoughts of my dark place.
It's seduction of safety and simplicity.
Of doing what I wanted to my body.
Until it too gave out like my mind had years prior.

By the next year I had relapsed.
RELAPSE
This word became plastered on every legal document I had.
This word was supposed to mean it was my fault.
That I had somehow turned around my progress.
What they didn't tell me is what the word truly meant.
Relapse means they never truly fixed me.
I was still broken and cracked under my new layer of paint.
My doll's eyes permanently captured sadness.
My porcelain skin scratched and scarred.

All it took was one push and I broke.

I. Relapsed.