I've made excellent progress with my manure mountain, taking the time to gather years of solid proof that I am useless and unlovable, and stacking it all into a big, lumpy mountain of shit, and burrowing in deep.
And then I stopped.
I don't need to do that. I'm better than that. I don't belong in that shit pile. I never did.
I dug thru my therapy notes and found it. "August 11, 2014." That was the last time. It's been five months since I've self-harmed.
|Five months, fuckers.|
I don't even know where my knife is right now. And if I did, I'd use that fucker to slice the piece of cake I'm about to eat.
Pieces. Pieces of cake.
Having these symptoms is still bullshit. I'm surrounded by more love and support and patience than I ever imagined I could be. I know I could pick up the phone and call any number of people for support, and have them inside my house within minutes, if that's what I needed. I am loved.
And in moments like this, I doubt every single bit of it. I am suspicious. I am wary.
I am a dick.
But I'm not a dick. I'm operating with a malfunctioning brain. And I'm still in control of this bullshit episode. I'm not spiraling into that hopeless state of mind where all I can do is cry and injure myself. I'm experiencing irrational symptoms, and reacting like a rational human being. I am reacting like a rational human being, even tho my brain doesn't function properly.
Can I get a wut wut.