I caught myself kicking off again today.
I don’t know why my brain does this to me, maybe it’s just part of the process of detangling myself, but for some reason my first reaction to a difficult time™ is to completely self destruct.
Engaging in conversations that can only go badly.
Running 5kms on an empty stomach.
Submitting 200 words instead of 1,000.
Dropping out of classes at 2am.
And I mean, I do have my reasons I suppose. I’ve had a bad mental health week all round, really, but I noticed the beginning stages of the dominos of self destruction¹, and frankly, I’m tired of living like this.
Unwashed hair.
Forgetting to shower.
Unfolded clothes piling in the corners.
Unmade bed.
Tiny pity parties for things that are really just life.
Self care washing down the drain.
So I showered.
Not just sitting under the water feeling fifty shades of miserable–properly.
A tiny, insignificant thing, but wow it took a stupid amount of effort.
Wow. Congratulations, Brii, you did a thing.
I felt a bit better, more at home in the space I inhabit, less like something that lives in the bottom of a lake.
And then, I noticed.
My body has changed.
My stomach is softer. It sits differently.
I mean logically, I know this is a good thing. We need this layer of fat that rolls over when you sit to protect our internal organs.
(Particularly if you own a uterus, hence why a healthy ~flat stomach~ is basically impossibly.)
But still.
What?!
[Pause.]
[Observe.]
I thought of Love Your Body Week and every word my wise mind wrote.
Make this house my home.
I will love my body because…
[Long, over dramatic exhale.]
I mean, I’ve been “in recovery” for years. Man, I can say all the right things to get what I need, I’ve been working the system since I was 16.
I can even believe my elaborate string of lies for a while.
Sure I love my body.
Yes I believe my life has worth.
No I’m not planning anything silly.
Honey, that is not going to cut it.
I had this random memory of a Doctor Who episode where Amy Pond, on learning the truth of how Starship UK is operated, is forced to chose between forgetting or protesting.
I’ve always hit forget.
Every single time I have thrown away all progress the minute it gets hard².
Tonight I hit protest.
Gave up control.
Trusted.
Sometimes recovering will be fanfare and crossing bridges and leaping forwards.
Other days it is whispering to yourself that, despite the screaming, truth is still truth.
(Even if it definitely does not look like that and everything feels awful and the only visible solution is screaming very loudly.)
All my love,
b.
¹Yes that is a thing.
²That is an ego boosting confession, for sure. I feel great about realising that.*
*Sarcasm.
britts amelia. 