a day in the life

the scent of my new fabric softener reminds me of high school.

of getting up early in the morning, going to the toilet, weighing myself, necessarily in that order. writing that number down in my food log, counting how many calories it was going to take before i dropped another pound. after my daily weigh-in — a prolonged body check in the mirror, get dressed, make breakfast.

i never starved myself; in fact i always took pride in not skipping meals. can you believe that at the height of my eating disorder (ED for short. cute) i was consuming up to 2300 calories a day? no binges, either; not a single time out of control for two plus years.

control was my thing. i didn’t have to deprive myself of food when just restricting my intake did the job: i was losing weight like crazy.

so, yeah, breakfast. at precisely 5:30 or whatever it was. first down a full mug of black coffee so that youre full to begin with. then, oatmeal. 45 grams of steel-cut oats, not 44, not 46. when in doubt round three tablespoons up to 50, such as when you’re at a friend’s house. kitchen scales = essential piece of equipment and your best friend. makes you feel so safe and secure. water, no milk. 15 grams of nuts of your choice. except … walnuts pack a staggering 654 calories per 100 grams, cashews a mere 553 … do with that info what you will. sometimes i would go crazy and add a piece of 99% dark chocolate in the mix and melt the whole thing in the microwave. pretty Decadent, huh? i felt super guilty for being so indulgent afterward tho, so I didn’t do it very often. instead, over time i started making some odd dietary choices, such as swapping nuts for eggs because they loaded more protein for like half the calories. what i generously called “cake” tasted more like soggy cardboard, but i still devoured the whole thing, the noise of my spoon scratching against the bowl waking up my parents in the next room.

or My Spoon and My Bowl, I should say… when you are obsessed with food, you’re pretty particular about that sort of thing. i would get pretty angry whenever some of my utensils were missing when I NEEDED THEM!!! or, god forbid, when somebody else had eaten that sorry cup of low-fat yogurt i was looking forward to that entire day and specifically left that extra 124 kcal of room for. i would get pretty angry pretty easily. well, it was more like i was perpetually irritated or annoyed, ready to pounce on you the instant you inadvertently triggered me with some seemingly innocuous remark.

brush teeth, leave house, go school. arrive early so sift through your food log filled with motivational quotes for “fun”.

DRINK WATER!!!!11111 sOOOO much water. take not one but two 1.5 liter bottles to school and have even that not be enough, so at some point start considering switching to those huge ass 5L bottles instead. go pee every 15 minutes.


that on 3 (three) separate occasions on my way back home I peed myself (yes, you read that correctly) because I just couldn’t hold it in any longer between the train station and my house? youd think that one time should be enough, but nah…

you need to hydrate, always remember that ❤️

class … is a blur…

friends … are a blur…

LUNCH BREAK! stuff yourself with whatever you meticulously measured out the day before. i was a big fan of cauliflower. it was low on calories and carbs, yet so damn filling. and by “filling” i mean that it FILLED the entire classroom / bus / wherever else I was with that god awful smell of sulfur that makes you wanna puke. but i didn’t care; i had as much right to eat as anybody.

on my way home i let myself have something sugary, like an oatmeal cookie or a PB+J with banana…on…wholegrain bread… as a pre-workout snack. imagine what that did to my stomach during exercise xD

the original idea was that i would exercise three to four times a week. seeing as i had plenty of time on my hands though, because of my lack of social life, that quickly turned to four to five to six to seven.

oh, i forgot to mention, i usually slept on the bus because I was JUST so full of energy! which was good, because it left me all energized for my workout.

i hated HIIT. hated every minute of it. but home workout videos were easier than going to the gym; at least nobody was judging me. at Pure, the personal trainer who first introduced me to weight training later told me to lay off the treadmills or he was going to tell my parents he was concerned. i smiled, nodded politely, thanked him, said i was fine, kept hitting the elliptical instead for at least a couple more months. they were more effective, anyway.

have dinner, update food log, do homework (necessarily in that order). in theory i could have “everything in moderation”. in practice tho, if you’re cutting calories you’ll likely choose 120g of lean chicken turkey over a slice of salami 99 per cent of the time. stalk celery, which i used to hate, suddenly became my new favorite vegetable.

in my free time i would fill this giant pink folder with article clippings from my two favorite magazines, Shape and Women’s Health. i loved drooling at the pictures next to recipes i was never going to make because they were dripping with fat (like one spoonful of olive oil specifically).

another one of my favorite pastimes was endlessly scrolling through my tumblr feed full of thinspo posted by blogs that mistakenly called themselves “fitblrs”. living and breathing “body goals” screws you up.

when i was out — probably doing my grocery shopping, for i didn’t do much else outside my bedroom — i didn’t see people, i saw sizes. and it’s the weirdest thing… i wasn’t one of those girls who think everyone else is skinnier than they are, i knew i was underweight. but logic didn’t apply to me; i just wanted that rush of finding out you lost another pound, and another, and another. I considered myself pro-health and didn’t see the hypocrisy.

my bedtime was pretty early: the sooner you fall asleep, the less time you have to notice you’re still hungry.

the winter of 2012, it must have been, saw me layering leg warmers on top of jeans on top of leggings on top of tights, and sporting skiing shoes that were larger than i was, two or three pairs of socks underneath, and still shivering with cold.

i remember that Christmas, AFTER i did my usual round of cardio, i exercised for three more hours on my indoor stationary bike just so i could feel okay with having like a dumpling or whatever later that evening.

my formerly beautiful hair became brittle and started falling out in clumps, and hair appeared on other parts of my body that wasn’t there before — i later learned that this is called lanugo and it’s your body’s way of trying to keep itself warm.

my skin was dry, my eyes hollow, and my nose seemed to take up half of my face.

and among all the “are you okays” there were still some “how do you do its”. i dismissed the former, cherished the latter, even when it was coming from my friend’s depressed, insecure, yet herself scary thin mom whom i was actually pretty worried about.

i was an authority on nutrition, people were coming to me for advice, they paid attention. i couldn’t let that go, couldnt let myself slip up; failure wasn’t an option. but i hated the thought that my appearance or my behavior might inspire somebody else to try to achieve that same level of malnutrition. i didn’t want other people to be “fat” or “skinny”; i wanted them to be healthy and happy … just not myself though.

and I could wear ANYTHING! i mean i didn’t; i still thought everything looked awful with my body type so i mostly stuck with baggy sweaters. but i had a CHOICE!

i didn’t admire my friends’ intelligence or their sense of humor; i envied their ability to eat junk food and still have a perfect, flat stomach. i didn’t pursue relationships or good grades, every minute of every day was about making CERTAIN i wasn’t going over my somewhat arbitrary calorie limit.

and all this for what?

i’m not exactly sure.

głupio mi

CBT zakłada, że ludzie są z gruntu racjonalni; że wszystko co robią, każde ich zachowanie, ma jakieś logiczne uzasadnienie: mniej lub bardziej praktyczne przekonanie o sobie czy o świecie. Jestem pewna że mogłabym doszukać się takiego zgrabnego wytłumaczenia dla najdrobniejszych swoich decyzji i nawyków; po fakcie przypisać im sens którego pierwotnie wcale nie miały (przynajmniej w moim odczuciu). Pytanie ile z nich byłoby trafione.

Prawda jest taka że nie odbieram własnej motywacji jako opartej na jakichś przesłankach; ona mi się po prostu przytrafia — lub nie. Gdyby wynikała z wiary w to czy tamto, miałabym na nią jakiś wpływ. Sęk w tym że zachowuję się akurat tak a nie inaczej bo czuję, że nie mam wyboru. Że moje zachowania nie wypływają z potencjalnie zmiennych przekonań, tylko z mojej niezmiennej natury: że po prostu jestem głupia, leniwa i impulsywna. Że jestem nudna, pasywna, samolubna. A ponad wszystko, że brak mi niezależności, kreatywności, inicjatywy, pewności siebie czy jakiejkolwiek innej siły sprawczej żeby wywrzeć realny wpływ na własne życie. Uciekam przed wysiłkiem bo boję się nawet nie tyle porażki, co samej odpowiedzialności.

Łatwo się poddaję… jakby mi nie zależało. A później złoszczę się że nie dostaję tego, na co przecież we własnym mniemaniu nie zasługuję. Jeśli jakimś cudem uda mi się coś osiągnąć lub z czymś zmierzyć, to przypisuję to przypadkowi, szczęściu, zaniżonym oczekiwaniom innych, bezwartościowości samego przedsięwzięcia… a mimo tego wszystkiego mam wrażenie że w jakimś wymiarze oszukuję.

Poddaję się bo to najszczersze co mogę zrobić… bo mi się należy: zostać zmiażdżoną przez pierwszą lepszą błahostkę, nie przyjąć najmniejszego wyzwania, bo i tak mu nie sprostam.

Najgorzej kiedy jestem sama. Owszem, jestem introwertyczką, ale bardziej mi to szkodzi niż pomaga. Izoluję się od ludzi, a wtedy okazuje się że jako jednostka nie mam żadnych preferencji w kwestii spędzania czasu, i w rezultacie nie robię nic. Nie potrafię sobie znaleźć zajęcia może nie dlatego że lubię nicnierobić czy też nic mnie nie interesuje, ale po prostu dlatego że nic nie jest w moich oczach wystarczająco produktywne, wszystko to strata czasu.

Jakby sensem i celem życia było spędzenie każdej chwili na działaniach które zmierzają w jakimś bardzo konkretnym kierunku. Tylko jakim, skoro kiedy już osiągniesz wyznaczony cel to okazuje się że życie idzie dalej, a ty odczuwasz rozczarowanie i jeszcze większą pustkę niż wcześniej? Druga opcja to spoczęcie na laurach w niezdrowym samozadowoleniu. I co dalej?

Zmienność budzi we mnie dyskomfort. Nie chcę przyjąć do wiadomości, że żyje się nie po to żeby dotrzeć do jakiegoś punktu za którym nie ma już nic. Że taki punkt nie istnieje i jest tylko złudzeniem na podobieństwo chrześcijańskiego raju.

Potrafiłabym żyć dla kogoś: to byłby jakiś zewnętrzny cel; nie potrafię natomiast żyć dla siebie.

Jeśli chodzi o samostanowienie czy samoregulację, to mam wrażenie jakbym miała narzędzia, tylko nie umiała z nich korzystać. Miała materiały, ale żadnej wizji jak je zaaranżować w jakąś jedną, sensowną spójną całość.

Kiedy werbalizuję wszystkie te swoje obawy, to aż mi wstyd że przed zrobieniem czegoś ze sobą powstrzymują mnie tak podstawowe kwestie, z którymi inni jakoś sobie radzą. Ale jednocześnie… chyba wcale nie w pełni szanuję ich starania. Chyba w nich też trochę wątpię: że wcale nie odczuwają spełnienia, tylko też się rozpraszają na nieco bardziej wyrafinowane sposoby. Że mają więcej metod na zapełnienie pustki, ale ta pustka zawsze tam była, jest i będzie.

Trudno pisać to wszystko i nie brzmieć jakbym usiłowała stwarzać pozory głębi. Nie chcę. Jestem płytka i moje lęki też, w tym cały problem.

Czekam. Czekam aż ktoś mnie nakieruje, oceni, pochwali, skrytykuje, cokolwiek. Zdiagnozuje i naprawi. Zero miejsca na niejasne uczucia i niepewną przyszłość.

To bez sensu… teoretycznie mam bardzo ograniczoną perspektywę, a jednak sparaliżowana jestem tym że wisi nade mną ogrom wszystkiego, i to on mnie przytłacza. Ta niemożność podjęcia “Właściwej Decyzji” w obliczu wszystkich teoretycznych możliwości.

Najbardziej na świecie chcę się zmienić, a to zmiana właśnie wydaje mi się zupełnie niewykonalna.

talk less. smile more

I’ve been trying to figure out exactly what it is I need
Called up to listen to the voice of reason
And got his answering machine
I left my message but did he fuck get back to me?
And now I’m stuck still wondering how it’s meant to be

You’d think being an introvert, I should thrive in self-isolation, right? Not so… for I am a low-functioning introvert: an introvert who doesn’t know how to be alone. An introvert who needs external structure, or she drowns in the emptiness of solitude. I thought I would have written like 20+ posts by now, but blogging — like work — was just another distraction from anxiety.

for the first time ever, i had nowhere left to hide, and the anxiety hit me with full force.

i … survived. i’m surviving. that’s all i can say for now.

it’s not always your fault, part 2

or, my mom called me a stalker

I went to see my doctor yesterday… again. The hospital was almost empty, but the staff were still there. Said everywhere that they’re not accepting patients atm. But I had come there with a specific goal in mind, and I wasn’t leaving until I had accomplished it. I needed to talk to him, and I didn’t care if it came across as stupid, reckless, or desperate. Truth be told, I probably am all of these things.

When he saw me, he reacted in much the same way he always does: hardly at all, with a hint of annoyance. He got impatient and tried to send me home, because of course he did, but I kept talking, kept apologizing.

… I guess I need him to like me — or at least to forgive me — after all…

At that point he interrupted me and assured me that everything was fine and I should really just go home.

I heard him say it, but I didn’t believe that it could possibly be true… it just didn’t register that he could have just forgiven me, forgotten the whole thing, and moved on with his life. (Even though logically of course I know he simply cannot take stuff personally at his job, or he would have gone insane long ago.)

I didn’t know how to react, so I decided to behave as if I’d believed him, and I just said, I guess I just tend to overthink people’s — he interrupted me again — May be so. But there’s nothing wrong with that, you know. Now go home already.

And it’s a good thing I was forced to get up and leave his office, because otherwise I would have just opened my mouth and stared at him in stunned silence.

Was that it all along? Was he just a doctor being all doctor-y, and I took his professionalism as a sign of hostility? I suppose that what I could have said instead was, I guess I just take everything personally because I need everything to always be about me. It would have amounted to pretty much the same thing: they both lead to misplaced guilt & excessive self-consciousness.

Realizing that he truly didn’t care was the greatest relief I had felt in months. That comes with its own set of problems, such as my obsessive need for his approval to feel okay with myself. At the moment he’s one more person I define myself by. But I can work on that in therapy.

But to have it pointed out to me just how much I read into everything was… something. When I left the hospital, I was like, Of course he doesn’t care, why would he?… but my brain works rather differently when left to its own devices.

Every neutral expression, every resting bitch face, every blank stare directed in the general area of where I’m standing, gets automatically interpreted as anger or annoyance. Never mind that more often than not a blank stare is nothing more than, well, a blank stare, but even if the person does happen to be annoyed at something or someone,

it really isn’t always your fault.

it’s not always your fault, part 1


K made me cry today. Unintentionally, of course; she was going for the opposite.

She brought up in public something I’d said to her in private. It made everyone laugh, and I got defensive. When they left, I tried to explain my (over)reaction. That I know it’s not healthy but I need to be in control of who hears me say what, and that I don’t like other people relaying in my presence something I said to them before, because I have trouble communicating in the first place, and that only further distorts my intended message. And because it draws attention to me that I would never draw to myself by saying certain things in the company of more than two people.

She didn’t understand.

She said she saw nothing wrong with sharing with other people a neutral statement somebody else made, and it didn’t matter who shared it or what effect it had on those others. It didn’t occur to her that I make myself look stupid so often, I don’t need other people making me look stupid in front of additional witnesses. Nor did she take into account that “neutral” statements still say something about the person uttering them; not always something positive. (She claims to have social anxiety by the way. So I kind of expected her to sympathize? But our experiences of anxiety vary wildly.)

But that’s not what made me cry.

What made me cry was how she responded to my saying that I know it’s wrong and I don’t expect her to change, but just want her to understand my seemingly irrational behaviour.

And she said

that maybe I should stop seeing everything in terms of it being something wrong with me, and consider that maybe sometimes, it’s something wrong with other people; maybe it’s something wrong with her?

And I just started sobbing. Straight up bawling, because of how right she was. And I never thought of it that way. My feeling bad is always my fault, and I never even entertain the thought that somebody else might (also) be in the wrong.

I mean, obviously, in this particular case she wasn’t. But I’m pretty sure it was the first time I had ever stood up for myself and for my right to feelings, however irrational. It was an uncharacteristically confrontational behaviour on my part, broaching the subject as soon as I could and being (more or less) unapologetic about it. Putting my feelings first.

I always thought I was selfish. But maybe not in all the ways I could be.

Boredom in the Time of Coronavirus

Out of all the feelings I generally try to avoid, the one im most afraid of by a long shot must be boredom. I can’t tell if it breeds anxiety, restlessness and emptiness… if it accompanies them… results from them… or if it’s just their more manageable manifestation.

Be that as it may, boredom fills me with dread i cannot begin to explain.

It makes me think. And when I start to think, it always ends badly.

Most people will try & do something productive to stave off boredom… I wallow in it. Whereas others distract themselves from negative thoughts, and manage to actually get something done, or engage in creative pursuits, or just go for a walk or watch TV for goodness sakes — I… think.

Or at least I used to. At some point, i’m not exactly sure when, being alone with my thoughts and “sitting with my feelings” just got too much. But because the thoughts and feelings were still there, as unbearable as ever, and I was still too bloody terrified to address them, I had to tune them out.


As I’ve said before, I don’t exactly overeat because I love it so much I cant stop myself. Quite the contrary; I eat enough to be physically uncomfortable and to hate myself… because guilt, shame, regret, self-disgust — these are more acceptable, and possibly less painful, than whatever I’m avoiding.

The problem with trying to do literally anything else — draw, read a book — is that these activities don’t distract me from my thoughts; it’s my thoughts that make it virtually impossible to focus on anything else. I would even go so far as to say that attempting to be productive when I’m alone is counterproductive, as it only intensifies the feelings of pointlessness.

My boredom is inextricably linked with my laziness. I’m “lazy” because it doesn’t matter what I do, I am simply always bored. The boredom is a complex feeling; it’s not a matter of being uninterested in whatever you’re doing…

it’s more like an inability to achieve a state of flow. I am so preoccupied with the how of things that I can’t be mindful about the what. And the “how” seems so absurd: how can I, I myself and I alone, just …. do stuff? How is it that I can engage with my environment in interesting, meaningful ways that will produce some tangible real-life results? Just, no.

I always have this fear that I’m wasting time; that I’m not doing enough. The problem is, nothing is ever “enough”. I’m simultaneously obsessed with the idea of productivity and crippled by it —

— possibly because I have no concept of being productive by your own standards. I can’t set goals for myself because I feel like i have no agency over my own actions. like they don’t truly belong to me. like im just living out somebody else’s idea of me. if i want to do something for myself, it doesn’t really matter.

The following is not my original thought, and I’m paraphrasing here, but there’s this quote about how usually it’s I think, therefore I am, but a borderline thinks more along the lines of You exist, therefore I exist. I could never quite grasp the diagnostic feature of

(…) may at times have feelings that they do not exist at all. Such experiences usually occur in situations in which the individual feels a lack of a meaningful relationship, nurturing, and support. These individuals may show worse performance in unstructured work or school situations.

DSM-5, p. 664

…oh… oh, okay. That makes sense. That’s maybe not how I would put it, but I agree that that’s the underlying assumption. I don’t exist, other than as an extra in other people’s lives.

Not to mention I also lack object permanence, so even when i do have a “meaningful relationship”, it’s not enough to sustain me in the long run. Out of sight, out of mind, and again I’m nothing.

This emptiness is now more pronounced than ever, as I find myself having to sit at home, alone with my thoughts, no job to go to or even errands to run. I have my books, my coloring books, my Netflix and my Spotify — but it’s all so… futile, so… insubstantial.

In truth, I blog to remind myself that I do exist.

uoıʇɐılıɯnɥ ʎɥʇlɐǝɥ

The borderline narrative is a compelling one. But what it compels me to do is not altogether productive.

First learning about the disorder was a revelation, and the more I read about it, the more convinced I became that it described me to a T. Okay… so?

Even if that were true, or possible, it’s still only part of the story. It was so validating, and satisfying, to be understood so completely. Except I wasn’t. Nobody can be.

I know it’s basically the essence of BPD to look for things to fill that void where your identity should be, so I’m in something of a catch-22: as soon as I started identifying with it, it became all there was to me. But as I’ve come to realize, I don’t want it to be this way.

Borderline traits might accurately describe parts of my personality, which may be helpful in dealing with them. But no single word can account for the giant spectrum of thoughts and behaviors that any one person will exhibit irl.

The reason I’m saying all of this is because my boss gave me a lecture the other day about my rapidly deteriorating work ethic. He didn’t tell me anything I wouldn’t already know, but I needed to hear him say it out loud. I needed to hear somebody.

It was awful. In its own gentle way, it was probably the most humiliating thing I have ever experienced.

But it was also sobering.

I got exactly what I had always tried to force out of people: I got patronized. Because that’s what you get by acting even more clueless and confused than you really are. It’s cute. In puppies, and small children. Not so cute in a 25-year-old.

I was always looking either for validation or for pity, and when I finally found them, it was equal parts satisfying and pathetic. It was such a relief, though, to find out I had some dignity left to lose.

I overshare because I need people to understand why I am the way I am. I need them to tell me it’s okay and that it explains everything and there’s no more need for me to make any effort with anything ever. But being the way I am doesn’t absolve me of trying my best…

In a lot of ways I am still a child. I am immature, I can’t control my emotions, I refuse to take responsibility for my actions or for my life.

But as much as I crave to be accepted unconditionally, just the way I am right now, I have come to realize that that acceptance can be a double-edged sword. And for all the times I have abused my Mom’s selflessness & lack of consistency in enforcing any kind of discipline, I still resent her for trapping me in my own complacency.

Nothing was ever expected of me, nor did I hold myself to a particularly high standard. I grew up having my life lived for me, so I never had to develop / discover my own internal motivation.

I don’t want “poor mental health” to become a personality trait, or my defining characteristic. To my own surprise, I don’t even want it to be an excuse. When somebody else suggests that my struggles are valid, I’m relieved, yes, but somehow also almost offended. It’s like they’re agreeing that this right here is the best i can do. And i’m like, no!!!??

There were a number of times I have violated the rules of the employer/employee dynamic. I have treated him like a parent, like a friend, like a therapist (the last of which he is btw, though not to me…). And he has put up with all of it, and I’m so so grateful for that.

Most of the relationships in my life are these weird reenactments of my past experiences. But it’s different now. I’m more aware of it.

He — in true therapist fashion — was objective and to the point. And somehow, coming from him, I survived constructive criticism.

It was the other things the said that hit a bit too close to home. Things that should be obvious to somebody my age… but it was only when he said them that they started to make sense.

Things like, everybody’s got their own issues, and I can’t let my feelings interfere with my work. Things like, if I don’t attend to my responsibilities, somebody else will have to. He wasn’t blaming me …. he was giving me credit. Recognizing that I’m not doing something that I’m very much capable of.

And so I left his office feeling not guilty but … hopeful. It wasn’t any less embarrassing having had him explain to me the complexities of adulthood, but I’ve decided that embarrassment is a valid emotion, too, and one you can learn from as much as any other.

I want to grow up.

one-track minds

I almost got into a fight with my parents this morning. My Dad made a “joke”: international women’s day was invented by communists, so feminists must be pretty damn conflicted about it. I pointed out that equal doesnt mean the same, that nobody’s saying that gender doesn’t exist, that they’re judging a group by its most vocal, most radical members.

None of that convinced them though, and they accused me of taking myself too seriously & being unable to calmly discuss controversial topics, change my mind, or even provide arguments to support my POV — all things i constantly complain about them being.

So I shut up, which they interpreted as sulking — correctly, i might add. What’s annoying as heck is that they kind of had a point. I, too, am all of these things. The difference is, I know that, and I’m trying to change, whereas they are twice my age. They should know better. Or should they?

What im about to say is going to sound awful, but the main reason i find it so difficult to maintain my composure around my parents is that i know full well that I’m their flesh and blood, and I hate it.

I wish i could poke holes in my own reasoning as well as i can in theirs. But I can’t. And im scared shitless that all this effort im putting into trying to get to know myself better isn’t going to change a damned thing. and im always going to be the same stubborn, narrow-minded, unlikeable, unfunny twat that I always was. (with all due respect to my dear parents. Sometimes they’re just too much.)

(and also, i have no idea where legitimate criticism and acknowledging my parents’ humanity ends & where blame-shifting and projecting my insecurities on other people begins…)

identifying my flaws won’t make them go away. explaining away my flaws won’t make them go away. i’m not so convinced anymore that even i can do that. i just hope there can be some comfort in knowing why i am the way I am.

My parents react with hostility to (or simply reject) anything they don’t understand. They assume that if you hold an opinion, your conviction must be as strong, unconditional and unwavering, as their own faith in god. it’s either you believe and accept the doctrine as wholly true, or you don’t believe — there’s no in between.

they keep asking why i “abandoned my faith” when other kids, seemingly less religious, still go to church. and then, in one breath, they condemn the gay agenda. HMM IDK MOM!

they gave me freedom of choice, and then criticized me for making the wrong decision.

And yes, I know that religion is helpful to a lot of people. And for my parents specifically, it’s an anchor; the only constant throughout their life and a source of hope and strength and comfort. I wouldn’t dare take that away from them.

But not every religious person is as categorical or intellectually lazy as they are, and I’m afraid it has less to do with religion itself or their childhood trauma, and more to do with a general tendency to think in absolutes and be satisfied with easy answers.

what confidence have I that i actually understand everything i say and am not just parroting what somebody else told me? it’s probably in my genes, after all…

i could of course describe all of the above with one simple adjective, but I really want to believe there’s more to it than that. for my sake.

znów mam naście lat

Trudno mi pojąć związek między moją przeszłością, teraźniejszością i przyszłością. Trudno zaakceptować że to kim będę za tydzień czy za 10 lat nie będzie istniało w oderwaniu od tego kim byłam dotychczas ani kim jestem teraz.

Zawsze skupiam się na chwili obecnej, nie biorąc pod uwagę, że jej korzenie sięgają daleko wstecz; że jestem akurat tu gdzie jestem w wyniku wszystkich swoich decyzji, doświadczeń, pomyłek… a nie tylko tych z ostatniego miesiąca.

Nie umiem uczyć się na błędach ani robić planów na przyszłość, bo i jedno i drugie osadzone jest w abstrakcji, do której nie mam bezpośredniego dostępu i która przez to dla mnie nie istnieje. Na mniejszą skalę — “nie wiem kim jestem”, bo to kim jestem ogranicza się do tego czym się aktualnie zajmuję.

Nazywam to przez co teraz przechodzę “drugim dojrzewaniem” bo dokładnie tak się czuję: jakbym znów była w gimnazjum i musiała od nowa przepracowywać wszystko z czym wtedy nie potrafiłam się zmierzyć. Dziwnie mi z myślą, że w rzeczywistości tak gimnazjum, jak i liceum a nawet studia, już dawno mam za sobą. Wszystko to równie dobrze mogło w ogóle nie mieć miejsca.

Jedyna różnica polega na tym, że mimo wszystko jestem bogatsza o te doświadczenia i o tę wiedzę o sobie nabytą w drodze wszystkich moich prób zatrzymania dorastania i kształtującej się niezależnej tożsamości.

Teraz jestem bardziej świadoma swojej potrzeby utrzymywania pozorów kontroli nad sytuacją poprzez drobne obsesje. Wiem jak rzadko zdaję sobie sprawę z kierujących mną emocji, bo nigdy nie nauczyłam się ich przeżywać w zdrowy sposób. Rozumiem też swoją podatność na bezmyślne powtarzanie bezproduktywnych zachowań i ogólną tendencję do uzależniania się od wszystkiego, co chociaż na chwilę wypełni pustkę. Odciągnie od prowadzących donikąd rozmyślań. Odwróci uwagę od bólu osamotnienia i tego przerażającego przekonania, że nieważne co zrobię, to nigdy nic nie zmieni.

Mój obraz samej siebie od zawsze opierał się na pewnym podstawowym założeniu, z którego nie do końca zdawałam sobie sprawę. Najszczęśliwsza byłam wtedy, gdy żyłam nadzieją: gdy, jak tonący brzytwy, chwyciłam się pierwszego lepszego pomysłu na siebie. Na zmianę. Moje położenie zawsze wydawało się nie do zniesienia z bliżej nieokreślonych przyczyn, które zawsze sprowadzały się do “coś jest ze mną nie tak”.

Nadzieja przybierała różne formy. Czasem pojawiała się pod postacią kujoństwa i naiwnej wizji “zrobienia kariery” (pojemny termin który znacząc wszystko, nie znaczył dla mnie nic), innym razem przybierała pozory zwykłej próżności i obsesji na punkcie własnego wyglądu.

Niekiedy nadzieja rodziła się ze spotkania osoby sprawiającej wrażenie na tyle dojrzałej i wnikliwej, że mogłaby mnie rozgryźć i naprostować. Kiedy indziej karmiłam się słowami wątpliwych autorytetów w dziedzinie wszystkiego od stylu życia po moralność, wmawiając sobie że jeśli dostosuję się do wszystkich ich zaleceń, naprawię tym samym cokolwiek było we mnie “zepsute”.

Takie wymuszone szczęście zawsze okazuje się nieuchwytne. Potrafię tylko gonić za doskonałą pracą, doskonałym zdrowiem, partnerem czy osobowością — jakimś jednym czynnikiem, który odmieni całe moje życie. Kiedy natomiast okazuje się, że moje wyobrażenia były nierealistyczne, odpuszczam sobie zupełnie.

Z jakiegoś powodu nie potrafię zintegrować wszystkich swoich zainteresowań i dążeń jako pełnoprawnych części mojej psychiki. Jeśli tylko coś nie spełnia moich wygórowanych oczekiwań, odmawiam mu wszelkiej wartości, odrzucam, zapominam. Tracę nadzieję na jakąkolwiek poprawę czy wzrost i wracam do punktu wyjścia.

Dla większości ludzi pasje i przekonania są raczej dopełnieniem ich osobowości niż jej fundamentem. Nie trzymają się ich kurczowo, bo nie dyktują one ich “wartości”. Ja natomiast czuję, że nie mam żadnej wartości ponad tę, którą buduję na powierzchownych, przejściowych etykietach.

Moja jedyna nadzieja na szczęście leży w zmianie, w przybraniu pozorów samodyscypliny i ambicji, wszystko by zamaskować swoją prawdziwą naturę.

Ta trochę bardziej świadoma nastolatka we mnie mówi: Nie rozumiem… To nie wszyscy nie lubią siebie?

I think my psychiatrist hates me

I mean i can’t know for sure, i have little else to go on other than his averted gaze, curt responses, and general indifference to my very presence in his office. It’s either that, or I’m seeing something that isn’t there.

He had every right to be hurt, even offended, by what I said to him that one time. but, assuming i’m interpreting his current behavior correctly, i would argue it’s rather unprofessional of him to be quite so open about holding a grudge. I mean he treats mental illness, isn’t he supposed to know that your words are your symptoms FFS?

But maybe I’m overthinking this, and maybe he really is just this apathetic. Main thing is, i just realized that i don’t give a fuck one way or the other. I said something inappropriate, something I didn’t mean, and then apologized profusely. TWICE.

There’s nothing else I can do short of bringing him flowers, and I’m over trying to make everyone like me, even my own mf doctor. what i need from him are my prescriptions, not his unconditional affection.

this can be another learning opportunity: not everyone will care, and still I have to stand up for myself regardless.

feels good once you realize you can.