It's exhausting to spend all my energy for the day on keeping myself safe. All the skills learned, all the ways to self-soothe, everything trains me for this moment.
This moment that hits me like a tidal wave, crashing into my rationale, pulling me under and convincing me there will be no relief. But there eventually is. I always fight to keep my head up.
My body shivers during these bursts of chaos, and I let it. I retreat to somewhere safe where I don't have to hide my despair, where I can shake and rock and eventually contain a portion of the storm brewing inside.
It's all about containment, of waiting out the worst, of keeping my legs from walking to the access point, of keeping my mouth from swallowing what was never designed for me.
I think back on the day and wonder what purpose it served. Why staying alive was the only task I could put effort into. Why it hurts to only have two people who know the severity.
And I'm constantly thinking of who will leave next, if they knew. Too suicidal for a professional. Too in crisis to ever see again. But I keep so much to myself, and it makes the option of help seem a thousand miles away.
In the span of an hour, I could let my mind win, I could invite the drowning of self. In the span of an hour, I could drastically shift the outcome of a future, of the process of moving forward or falling behind.
In the span of an hour, I both lose and gain myself, and I wish they knew how much I try to balance the equation, how much I seek out better ways to endure this.
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Just felt really alone in this and once again, writing it out helps.
