I relapsed and I didn't even know it.

Last year I left my apartment behind to move to uni. I worked tirelessly, but I am disabled and I couldn't throw everything out in time. I paid a hefty fee for management to get a cleaning service. I thought to myself that at least I accepted I was a hoarder and I vowed that I never would again.

I thought I did. They make you change dorms every semester, which is a toll on my body, but little space meant lesser items. I did great the first few months, moved okay, cruised by two semesters constantly reminding myself to throw everything out and doing so. My room got messy when I was depressed but I wasn't clinging onto things like I used to, and I thought that if I began to slip that it would be obvious since I live in half a box with a shared kitchen.

It didn't occur to me I relapsed when I put myself in pain packing my things. It didn't occur to me I relapsed when I was drowning in things to move even with my partner and best friend helping me. It did occur to me, finally, when I saw how they sacrificed to help me and it dragged on, when my best friend looked like he wanted to collapse and kept going, when the poor sweet love of my life cut their foot helping me and kept it pushing.

I still can't wrap my mind around how things are this bad when it vs not nearly as much as before. I have to throw out most my things again, figure it how it snuck up on me, and call a therapist. I feel like I've betrayed myself. I feel like I've betrayed the ones who love me. I look at my exhausted love and I think I've broken my own heart.