I think I'm finally getting better.
Therapy has been going well. But while the vast majority of it was me improving, there were times I slipped into bouts of biting. Anxiety sometimes crept up on me, bad thoughts sometimes took my breath, and I begged for death under my breath. I still haven't completely weaned myself off my gloves---I still need them when I'm sleeping. But most of my symptoms now feel very far away for me. I rarely if ever feel that bad anymore. I don't have self harm thoughts about the objects around me. I recovered far, far quicker than I was expecting, to the point where I may cancel therapy. And today, I really felt it. Safety.
Before, I was obsessed with reading stories--hours upon hours of stories each day---and it overwhelmed me with emotions. It was almost like the tears again; an addiction, a way for me to feel strong sensations and chemical releases that couldn't otherwise. Maybe that's exactly what it was. But from the comfort of my bed, for hours on end, I could put myself through powerful waves of emotions and thrills that sent me on the edge of tears, and never have a moment of calm. It was overwhelming.
And I quickly realized that, like when I was in paramount stress, being overwhelmed with emotion made me want to hurt myself. It was nearly every time. Be it overwhelmed with euphoria or sorrow, I would always end up gnawing on my hands, or scratching at my face. When I was stressed, it was the same. I think that's why it began to carry over into everything else--I was so scared of being labeled and suffering self-harm, so scared of being a freak, and so anxious over my feelings over Rebbie, that I was always in a state of stress. The only relief was escape in my stories.
The therapist said that I felt emotions too strongly. That's true, I guess, though I hate to think it. I've always been like that. The smallest thing can fling me over the edge, into impossible hysterics. I feel every emotion so intensely. I guess it was my downfall. Hurting myself was always the conclusion.
Therapy has been attempting to teach me to distance myself from my emotions a bit, to a healthy level. 'Separate your thoughts from your emotions', he said. It never sat right with me. But by the third visit, I had talked over my feelings with Rebbie and we had found our love to be mutual. And since then, though not much changed, I felt incredibly less anxious. Bad thoughts plagued me less and less, and self-harm has been at an all time low. Now, it rarely happens. I guess that anxiety over them was really eating away at me and I was trying to hide it from myself. I can finally interact with my environment healthily again.
But I continued therapy, because I knew all of my dips had been because of my complete and utter inability to deal with stress. But today, I went back to the stories. And they crashed over me just like before, an amazing amount of intensity and inspiration. And at first, I felt a stronger urge to hurt again. I gritted my teeth until they were sore and bit down on a wound in my lip. But then, that faded. I was just desiring the urge to paint.
When did I get to the point where I could deal with stress at a healthy level? When was I able to sort through my feelings through harmless and progressive means? What was the tipping point where I stopped solving stress with pain and started using art? I don't know. But it's amazing. I'm far but perfectly emulating mental health, but I finally feel healthy. I feel like I'm free, a bit. Distanced from mental illness. I've recovered, I'm becoming a good person again. I can breathe.
I can finally say it again and mean it:
Life is good.
Therapy has been going well. But while the vast majority of it was me improving, there were times I slipped into bouts of biting. Anxiety sometimes crept up on me, bad thoughts sometimes took my breath, and I begged for death under my breath. I still haven't completely weaned myself off my gloves---I still need them when I'm sleeping. But most of my symptoms now feel very far away for me. I rarely if ever feel that bad anymore. I don't have self harm thoughts about the objects around me. I recovered far, far quicker than I was expecting, to the point where I may cancel therapy. And today, I really felt it. Safety.
Before, I was obsessed with reading stories--hours upon hours of stories each day---and it overwhelmed me with emotions. It was almost like the tears again; an addiction, a way for me to feel strong sensations and chemical releases that couldn't otherwise. Maybe that's exactly what it was. But from the comfort of my bed, for hours on end, I could put myself through powerful waves of emotions and thrills that sent me on the edge of tears, and never have a moment of calm. It was overwhelming.
And I quickly realized that, like when I was in paramount stress, being overwhelmed with emotion made me want to hurt myself. It was nearly every time. Be it overwhelmed with euphoria or sorrow, I would always end up gnawing on my hands, or scratching at my face. When I was stressed, it was the same. I think that's why it began to carry over into everything else--I was so scared of being labeled and suffering self-harm, so scared of being a freak, and so anxious over my feelings over Rebbie, that I was always in a state of stress. The only relief was escape in my stories.
The therapist said that I felt emotions too strongly. That's true, I guess, though I hate to think it. I've always been like that. The smallest thing can fling me over the edge, into impossible hysterics. I feel every emotion so intensely. I guess it was my downfall. Hurting myself was always the conclusion.
Therapy has been attempting to teach me to distance myself from my emotions a bit, to a healthy level. 'Separate your thoughts from your emotions', he said. It never sat right with me. But by the third visit, I had talked over my feelings with Rebbie and we had found our love to be mutual. And since then, though not much changed, I felt incredibly less anxious. Bad thoughts plagued me less and less, and self-harm has been at an all time low. Now, it rarely happens. I guess that anxiety over them was really eating away at me and I was trying to hide it from myself. I can finally interact with my environment healthily again.
But I continued therapy, because I knew all of my dips had been because of my complete and utter inability to deal with stress. But today, I went back to the stories. And they crashed over me just like before, an amazing amount of intensity and inspiration. And at first, I felt a stronger urge to hurt again. I gritted my teeth until they were sore and bit down on a wound in my lip. But then, that faded. I was just desiring the urge to paint.
When did I get to the point where I could deal with stress at a healthy level? When was I able to sort through my feelings through harmless and progressive means? What was the tipping point where I stopped solving stress with pain and started using art? I don't know. But it's amazing. I'm far but perfectly emulating mental health, but I finally feel healthy. I feel like I'm free, a bit. Distanced from mental illness. I've recovered, I'm becoming a good person again. I can breathe.
I can finally say it again and mean it:
Life is good.
