03.12.2020
I haven’t written in a while, and it’s not because I haven’t wanted to. It’s just that I’ve sort of slipped back into that place where I’m embarrassed by my struggle. I also don’t want to be defined by my struggle, so I’ve been hoping another muse would take flight in my vicinity. Alas, I am still here.
I’m not healed, and I doubt that’s even a realistic goal. I am MUCH better. Capital letters. But I’m not where I wish I was. I still have a long way to go. Every time I start to think I’ve really turned a corner, I’ll have a crying fit for no reason, or I’ll get so angry that I want to punch a hole in the sky (again, for no good reason). In between those two moments, I’m mostly okay. I’m finding small amounts of joy in the moments when I’m not looking so hard for them. That’s got to count for something.
I’ve been seeing my therapist so often that I’m starting to get a little bummed out when I go. They are obviously doing their best to help me, but it’s all just so much for me to process on an every-other-week basis. I have been able to mostly stop taking Klonopin when I get worked up. I think I’ve had one in the past 3 weeks, which I think is fantastic.
I’m still moving, and I don’t think about dying anymore. I’m here.
