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I have struggled to explain how it feels to be me. To have the anxiety, the depression, and being introverted. Being naked in a mason jar is the best way I can describe all of those things.
I am working hard to keep the darkness away so the light can begin to shine through. Learning how to have healthy boundaries, taking care of myself, and what that all means is one of the hardest things I am doing.
My thought process around suicide more than thirty years ago has stayed with me. Not in the sense that I think it is a good idea or that I am planning on suicide (I am not). It is the pain that I was feeling that is still with me today.
I know that I am broken. I know it as my truth. And you know what? Of course I am. I am still here taking my small steps forward.
Anxiety is a weird little beast. It strikes up when I least expect it, and when I do expect to feel anxious. But yesterday, on my birthday, it was coming on strong. I have no idea why.
I have been dreaming of my childhood home. I am sure there is a message there. I am not sure what yet. I wonder, what would the walls tell me?
Hitting rock bottom was so slow. I almost didn’t recognize it for what it was. Almost. I knew it for years, afraid to admit to myself that I was slowly killing myself.
There are things in my life I have some control over, and then there are things that I don’t. Being the product of spousal rape is one of those things that I could not affect. I spent my entire life feeling like I should have been able to. How messed up is that?
Coping skills, I used to think that I didn’t have those. But I did. They were unhealthy. And I don’t want them anymore, but they were there when I needed them.