It’s hard when you think you’re getting better and suddenly the realisation dawns that you’re not.
The crying starts again. The isolation. The self-loathing and, with it, the idea of self-harm.
The exhaustion. The hopelessness. The worthlessness.
A plane flies low over my house. I hope it’s going to crash into me.
When you thought all that was behind you.
And then you realise it’s all ahead.
Back to hiding away, metaphorical underpants on head.