The truth is that the first changes are so slow they pass almost unnoticed, and you go on seeing yourself as you always were, from the inside, but others observe you from the outside.
—Gabriel García Márquez, Memories of My Melancholy Whores (2004)
Yesterday we looked at Terrence Gorski’s map. Today we walk through phases one through six—denial, avoidance, crisis building, immobilization, confusion, depression—the territory clinicians call emotional relapse.
My relapses always began with denial. I would feel uneasy, anxious, afraid—something was off—but I wouldn’t tell anyone. More often than not I would not even admit it to myself. The feelings would come and go, and when they passed I’d forget they were ever there. The denial was so automatic I didn’t recognize it while it was happening.
Then avoidance would set in. I’d convince myself I’d never use again, so why keep working so hard? The daily reprieve would start to seem less important. I’d get busy—overworking, taking on extra commitments, playing therapist for everyone else—until I was overwhelmed. I’d focus on other people’s problems instead of my own, and blame others for mine. When someone asked how I was really doing, I’d get defensive. I’d find good reasons to skip meetings, to spend more time alone. At moments of high stress, I’d act without thinking—impulsive decisions that damaged my life and recovery.
Eventually problems would multiply. I’d solve one and two more would appear. Tunnel vision would take hold, and either everything seemed fine or everything seemed hopeless. Small things would trigger me. A low-grade depression would creep in, a grayness that drained my energy. I’d stop planning and start reacting. When I did make plans, they weren’t realistic, and when they failed, I didn’t know how to fix them.
At some point I’d hit a wall, what Gorski called immobilization. Getting out of bed would become a negotiation. I couldn’t sleep, or I’d sleep for twelve hours and wake up exhausted. Daydreaming would take over—fantasies of escape, of being rescued, of winning the lottery. I’d want things to get better, but the idea of doing something about it felt impossible. A sense of failure would descend, heavy and familiar.
Then came confusion and overreaction. Thinking would become difficult. I’d snap at people over small things and then hate myself for it. The anger scared me sometimes—I didn’t know where it was coming from or where it might go. Relationships would strain, conflicts multiplying no matter how hard I tried to resolve them. I’d feel like I was losing my grip on reality, no longer in control of my emotions, unable to name what was happening to me.
These didn’t always happen in order. Sometimes they overlapped, sometimes they circled back. They didn’t always lead to a slip. Sometimes I caught myself. But reading Gorski’s work, I can trace the pattern in every time I’ve relapsed.
Notice what’s missing from all of this—any thought of using. That comes later. This is what clinicians call emotional relapse, the stage where we’re not thinking about picking up, but our behaviours are quietly paving the road back. Skipping meetings, isolating, abandoning self-care, losing daily structure. We still believe we’re in recovery. From the inside, we look the same to ourselves. But others can see the change.
This is what makes the early drift so dangerous—it doesn’t feel like danger. It feels like being busy, being tired, being fine. The warning signs don’t look like warning signs. They look like life.
What internal signals have I been pushing aside or explaining away?
Where have I started isolating and calling it something else—independence, busyness, needing space?
What problems keep multiplying no matter how hard I try to solve them?
If someone who loves me were watching from the outside, what would they see that I can’t?
