For a long time, improvement had come with conditions.

Better days were often followed by worse ones.

So when things finally leveled out, I stayed alert.

I felt like I was standing on a trapdoor that hadn’t opened yet.

I kept scanning my body for signs.

This didn’t mean I expected failure — it meant my system had learned that stability was temporary.

Why My Body Expected the Pattern to Repeat

During illness, crashes weren’t random.

They followed effort, exposure, or change.

My body learned to anticipate them.

Waiting for impact became a form of self-protection.

This made sense alongside what I explored in why I didn’t trust good days.

The nervous system prepares for what it has experienced, not what it’s been told.

How Stability Felt Suspicious Instead of Reassuring

Each calm day raised a quiet question.

When will it end?

The longer stability lasted, the more I braced.

I mistook consistency for the calm before the storm.

This mirrored what I described in why things going well made me nervous.

When chaos has been familiar, calm can feel untrustworthy.

Why Letting My Guard Down Felt Dangerous

If I relaxed, would I miss something?

If I stopped monitoring, would I be blindsided?

Staying alert felt safer than being surprised.

Vigilance felt like insurance.

This connected closely to what I shared in why I kept scanning my environment for danger.

The body often clings to vigilance longer than it needs to.

The Moment I Realized the Crash Wasn’t Coming

Nothing dramatic changed.

Days simply kept passing.

No collapse followed.

Stability proved itself through repetition, not reassurance.

Sometimes safety isn’t announced — it reveals itself quietly over time.

FAQ

Is it normal to expect a setback after recovery?
Yes. Many people stay braced after long periods of instability.

Does waiting for a crash mean healing isn’t secure?
No. It usually reflects memory, not current risk.