Exams are over and I have survived.
Life has settled perfectly this time; no disaster, chaos, fighting to keep from drowning. One brief moment of discord and then everything found their right place.
Relief.
My therapist says that when we talk about things that hurt me I look at her with frightened eyes, as if I’m afraid she will wound me.
I feel as though I should just keep it to myself. It’s the same sob-story as always, with the same thoughts and the same conclusion. If I were someone else I would tire of it too.
It ceases to amaze me how my mother can simultaneously undermine my recovery (that’s too much sugar, don’t you think? I mean your skin…) and then have the audacity tell me its my fault (well, most people would appreciate my advice, you know, one day you might). I need to move out —now.
Evaluating some of my old destructive habits that had no basis in reality:
I think I may have just wrote the best philosophy exam essay insofar as my university experience goes. It was tight, succinct, pressured but forceful. I feel I expressed myself clearly and supplied ample supporting examples. I am proud, happy, gushing. I slept adequately and stabilized my blood sugar and therefore was able to write clearly and rationally, as apposed my regular rapid and anxious jumbled thoughts. Yesyesyes.
I love my psychiatrist so much. I walk out of his office every time not only feeling like a worthy person but also feeling as though I can tackle every problem and lead a balanced life. It’s as though just by talking to me he realigns my skewed brain and everything makes so much sense.
I made a mistake.
I slipped farther and then a little farther.
Obsessive. Reality takes a back seat.
Everything seems so real —but its not.
Better late than never.
Sometimes the light falls on my face just right.
My choice now clear:
go on or go under.
Hope, in arrears,
fades to far details.
