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.

DID YOU KNOW…

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.

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.

πŸžπŸ§‡πŸ₯žπŸ₯“πŸ—πŸπŸ¦πŸ₯§πŸ«πŸ©πŸͺ🍿πŸ₯€πŸ₯―πŸ³πŸ§€πŸ”πŸŸπŸ•πŸ§ˆπŸ§‚πŸ™ƒ

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.

physically filling an emotional void?

tw: please don’t read this post if you suffer from eating disorders, especially those on the restrictive side.

it’s relatively easy to start talking about emotions once you’re given a vocabulary. but now i need to talk about something i continue to feel a great deal of shame about, mostly because of how basic it is.

i’m a compulsive overeater. there, i said it. it’s pathetic, i know. how stupid do you have to be to not be able to control something so simple? how mindless and self-indulgent? but i am able to control it, in the short term, anyway; at least i used to be: in high school i was severely underweight.

what i am is … disillusioned. starving myself didn’t make me happy, so who the fuck cares what i look like.

and besides, it’s not about mindless / emotional eating anymore. the problem is that im now acutely aware that im doing irreversible damage to my body … painfully so … and that’s kind of the point.

it may be simple, but it does what it’s supposed to: it makes me feel even more weak, pathetic, disgusting, ugly, empty, unapproachable… worthless.

if im happy about one thing thats changed over the past two years or so, its that im less obsessed with my body.

yes, the reason i originally went into therapy was a sort of depression brought on by the discovery that i had high blood sugar (that i most likely was like 90 per cent responsible for) and the guilt & other negative feelings associated with that.

but my current health concerns have little to do with how i feel about my weight, lifestyle, & eating habits. it just so happens that i have to change them for health-related reasons.

im less preoccupied with my weight & size, and my self-esteem is less dependent on my appearance. but it’s not exactly out of self-acceptance…

…it’s out of indifference. i find it difficult to care enough to change the things that i should. all of my previous efforts to stay in shape and eat healthy were externally motivated (though it was my fucked up mind that took them to extremes). now, ive completely given up on trying to be “attractive”… or healthy.

so even though i could technically eat less, and potentially even fit a workout routine into my schedule, i know id find it not just hard but pointless to do so & stick to it.

what is more, i now frequently find myself forcing myself to binge when im already uncomfortably full. because … the emotional urge to numb out may be gone (for now at least), but the habit remains. i simply don’t know what else to do with my time.

part of it is down to the behavior pattern itself, but most of it results from the thought process that drove me to develop the pattern in the first place:

i feel empty. i feel stupid. i feel that i don’t deserve to do anything worthwhile or enjoyable in my life (yes! i don’t enjoy eating anymore! in fact i kind of hate it now! i don’t even eat most of my favorite foods anymore, nor do i crave them. i kind of don’t care either way). i feel that i deserve to isolate myself and rot away in my bedroom. and i mean, i’ve been doing that for so long, it’s scary just thinking about breaking that pattern, like … where do i begin?

but i’m proud of myself for reaching out for help, not just with this, but with everything. i’m proud that i can stop myself from overeating at least some of the time. and now, i’m proud of speaking out. it can get better. it will.

Paxilβ„’ is bae

This post is emphatically not brought to you by GlaxoSmithKline! πŸ˜€

cw: suicidal ideation … physiological functions? sorry, i’m not good at TWs

youll know by now that i dont have that many opinions. and even when i do, they’re rarely some firmly held beliefs. the controversial statement above, i’m not particularly attached to, either. but it is the way i feel, at least for now.

antidepressants can cause weight gain. true. also? irrelevant. they can increase blood pressure + sugar. the list of possible side effects goes on and on. for me right now, it’s memory problems and dry skin. oh, well.

now weigh that against the deepest, most profound and absolute sense of hopelessness and worthlessness you have ever felt in your entire life. a loneliness and insecurity so severe, for the first time in your life you start vaguely contemplating suicide not because you want to die, but because the thought of going on like this indefinitely simply feels unimaginable.

I shudder to think about the depths of depression people have descended to who are physically incapable of getting out of bed. That they live to see another day is an achievement in and of itself. I didn’t have it that bad, but it was still getting too much for me.

and i didn’t see a way out.

I remember going to Open’er Festival last year, excited to stay at the campsite for the first time ever and to see The Strokes, Interpol, LP, The 1975, Tom Walker… Vampire Weekend, who are one of my favorite bands of all time… I was going alone, but that was normal for me, I usually travel & go to concerts alone.

but when I arrived, I immediately wanted to leave. not go back home, but bury myself in a deep dark hole and never get out. i was surrounded by people who were all happy to be alive, enjoying their time together with their friends, and i felt like the loneliest person on earth.

and there was no way out.

obviously I couldnt leave. so i stayed. i stayed, and i forced myself to get out of my pitch black tent… sometimes. i had to summon all the willpower i could just to put one foot in front of the other, and there were times i almost stopped in my tracks and lay down on the grass. i had to keep going though, because if i stopped, it felt like i might never ever get up again.

at times i found myself going through the motions of “having fun”. i’d be standing close to the stage, mouthing the lyrics to my favorite song, and then a minute later it’d be like i wasn’t even there.

i was completely isolated and detached from what was happening around me. i ended up only seeing parts of the acts i wanted, and none of the “fillers”, even though i usually go from one artist to another and try to experience as much as i can possibly cram into one short day.

this time, though, I lay motionless in my sleeping bag, hardly registering Kylie Minogue and Swedish House Mafia performing at the main stage. To me they were just background; just noise, cancelling out my own thoughts.

and still no way out.

I came back home, and I… immediately asked my Grandma to get me a psych appointment. i couldn’t go on pretending any longer.

My doctor first prescribed duloxetine. It’s a strong SNRI, and it took the edge off. …across the board.

On my third day on the drug, I went to Berlin, to see AnnenMayKantereit live: a concert I’d been waiting forever to go to. The concert itself was great, though I would have enjoyed it much more fully sober. But at least that poignant feeling of loneliness wasn’t quite as bad.

Adjusting to the medication took a while. I would sweat like a pig, have heart palpitations and anxiety attacks, wake up very early in the morning. I would get dizzy just standing up, and have unpredictable mood swings. I also had really bad constipation. (Sorry!)

But…

god, the clarity.

it didn’t come on immediately. I was in Berlin for four days, and I spent most of that at a nearby Starbucks, reading research papers on antidepressants for seven hours at a time. i was in some sort of hypnotic trance where that seemed like a perfectly reasonable way to spend your time. And anyway, I also got tired easily, so i liked the not moving part.

But I was starting to see a way out.

Cymbalta wasn’t perfect for me. In the end it made me impulsive and sort of crazy. But in a way it saved me; it did exactly what it was supposed to do: it dulled the pain. It alleviated many of my physical symptoms, and there was a short period of time where it gave me some insight into my mental states.

Because i was so bad at expressing myself, I accidentally offended my psychiatrist when trying to tell him that I wanted to try something else. I stayed on it for two more months, and then, after hearing some of my symptoms, he complied with my wishes…agreed that duloxetine wasn’t good for me, and switched me to something else.

and that something was paroxetine, and it made a world of difference. it’s not perfect either. perfection doesn’t exist, you see. but its pretty fucking great.

it made me gain weight… and those hands, ugh, i need to moisturize like 24/7.

but it is so worth it.

Because now, I can see a way out.

and for the first time in my life, i can understand that the road to recovery is long and bumpy and far from linear… and be okay with it.

I owe it to Cymbalta that I was able to tell my doctor that I wanted to go off Cymbalta. It started to happen often, me recognizing my needs and not being afraid to tell people about them. I owe it to Paxil that I finally did what I should have done years and years ago, meaning starting this blog.

Continued use of antidepressants over several years may or may not be harmful, as anyone in certain facebook groups and some professionals disillusioned with their own field will tell you.

Moreover, I myself don’t believe that they’re the solution to the underlying problem. I would gladly stay on them forever, if not for the side effects and certain health concerns. Not because they solve the problem, but because they help. Simple as that.

Because there is a way out.

and now i can see how good life could be. and it’s like the negative experiences in my life hadn’t affected me. and i feel less anxiety. less shame. less dependency on other people. and things aren’t as black and white anymore.

i had absolutely no idea how many of my most basic assumptions about the world where wildly inaccurate. it’s kind of insane how one small pill a day can change your perception of everything that happens to you (or not even to you, but just in general). in very subtle ways it reduces the feeling of being inadequate, a burden, incompetent, that sort of thing. finally i can take criticism and not be tormented by it, or by whatever mistakes i make, for days afterwards.

i feel it’s important to keep in mind that the meds have changed my personality in some small but significant ways. contrary to what some of you may believe, though, it’s mostly been positive, and im far from the medicated zombie that some might make me out to be.

i feel as though i’d been deprived of an inner life before, and it’s now that i can finally process all my negative feelings. take a step back and assess them more rationally, because it doesn’t hurt as much.

What’s more, I’m not afraid of being vulnerable. coming off as silly. making a fool of myself. because i just. don’t care. and i know this kind of disregard for your own … dignity? migh be dangerous for someone who’s naturally more open about their feelings, idk, but for me it was eye-opening.

it’s now — on Paxil — that I wrote those notes to my family. it’s now that i started the blog. it’s now that i’m affectionate towards my loved ones, i sometimes joke around with friends from work, and i occasionally giggle (out loud!) when i read something funny. all of these seemed impossible just last July.

I can still (genuinely) laugh. I do still cry. And, to my own surprise, i find it easier, not harder, to empathize with people; possibly because I’m not burdened by my own emotions all the damned time.

and i can finally see how far up my ass my head has been all this time — and, importantly, still is. you have to be comfortable acknowledging your flaws if you’re ever going to change. damn right i’m narcissistic. and lazy. i can work on it.

Lastly, I would like to point out that initially, being prescribed antidepressants felt incredibly validating. i thought i wasn’t “sick enough” to seek help, but that prescription was proof that what i was going through wasn’t normal. i didn’t hide the fact that i was on them, but i didn’t overshare, either.

well, now i’m all about oversharing, haha. neither bragging, nor complaining, but simply stating the fact: antidepressants can help. they have helped me, and my only hope is that the withdrawal symptoms aren’t too bad and i can keep at least some of that positive outlook when i stop taking them.

i hope a similar peace of mind can be achieved naturally, if you know what you’re going for. that it is within your reach. in this way it’s a helpful therapeutic excercise that can teach you by how much your own perspective can change depending on the circumstances.

i believe the above is true for me. if you feel that you’re always going to need antidepressants, i can see where you’re coming from. they’re more than just a crutch, and i hope with time there’s less and less stigma surrounding them.

you take care of you, and do whatever you need to do. ❀

nature or nurture?

cw: alcohol dependence syndrome

i have this family member… he’s around 60, a bachelor… and an alcoholic. it’s kind of off and on with him, sometimes he can go months without drinking, but lately it’s been getting worse. alcoholism runs in my family; both sides.

he’s smart enough, kind, can be funny.

but i’ve only come to appreciate these qualities about him a while ago. before, i overwhelmingly had negative associations with him: him harassing my mom, extorting money, things like that.

but when i forced myself to look at him from a different perspective, i started feeling sorry for him. i can’t read his mind; maybe he’s perfectly content with things just as they are. but if i had to guess, im pretty sure hes pretty damn miserable. no career, hardly any personal life; the three of us are pretty much the only family he’s got. (again, i’m not saying you need other people to be happy; but it seems to me his only “friends” are his drinking friends.)

i know better than to judge or patronize him; that’s the worst part: i see a lot of myself in him (him in myself?), and i know i can’t really blame him for being prone to addiction any more than i can blame myself for my negative attitude.

and i’ve been thinking… can you really prevent addiction?

even if the external environment takes measures against individuals developing alcoholism in the first place, there will still be people who simply can’t do anything in moderation. i know because i’m one of them. you can spread information about drugs and alcohol all you want, and educate people about the dangers of addiction, but there will still be food. online shopping. exercise. sex. STUFF.

going overboard is bad for you, and you know it on some level, but to what extent can you control the signals that your brain is sending you? maybe if you can control them, you don’t have it as bad as some people.

overall, i like him, that family member.

and i wonder — was there something that triggered his problem, or was it more gradual? were any external factors involved, or was it all his poor impulse control / other characteristics & traits you can’t do much about?

and also — i don’t have to hate him, blame him, pity him. but i’d like to help him. …but can i? can anybody?

what if us impulsive people really are responsible for our own suffering? maybe we are just inherently toxic and narcissistic, immature, parasitic, lazy, sefish.

but surely that can’t be the whole story. i know because when his alcoholism is in remission, he can be… fine. considerate, empathetic.

maybe for all my negativity, i’m an incurable optimist about this one thing at least: that most of the time, most people mean well. or maybe that’s what i need to believe in order not to lose all hope myself…

what do you think?

first do no harm

cw: blood; self-harm

i wanna talk to you about self-care. no, not the insta-worthy kind. (i did say, not all my posts are going to be serious.)

i’m not talking about hot baths and candles and wine, or about meditation.

i mean more like, brushing your teeth in the evening, not just when youre going outside.

i mean like, sleeping in your bed instead of on the spongy mattress on the floor.

i mean not drawing the blinds at 4 pm.

im writing this post with two pairs of gloves on, as im trying to do something about this:

this is my hand today.

now, you may wonder, why is she posting a photo of her awful-looking hand for everyone to see? that’s not attractive content. well, no it is not. but this is my blog, and that over there is my hand, unnecessary as it may seem.

(and yes, ive decided to cover everything on this blog, and be as open as possible. because why the fuck not. i hope you don’t think im trying to be edgy or anything… though if you do i don’t really care either way. i used to worry about being perceived as doing things “for attention” or whatever. idk, maybe i am. but you know what? that’s a valid reason. people need attention. and maybe i can normalize something somebody feels uncomfortable about in the process?)

so anyway. ive been on a different ssri for a couple of weeks, and it’s been great.

except… ive been getting these strange side effects. i now have the memory of a goldfish, but i think i could adjust, if that were it.

now… i never used to hurt myself, even if i “wanted to”, if you know what i mean. but a week ago i messed up at work pretty badly. and afterwards, i was closing the cash register drawer, and i kind of slammed it with the back of my hand, and it didnt close properly, so i hit it again and it did close, but then i… continued hitting it?? and then i punched a hole in the wall with my elbow because i thought it was brick but it was actually plasterboard! :/

and then i forgot all about it and it hasn’t happened since, so i thought it was fine.

but my hands have been getting drier and drier, and i was like, pssshhh it’s nothing, i can handle it if it means feeling this good. and i kind of didn’t really think about it. people would point it out to me, oops your hand is bleeding and i would go haha yeah it does that πŸ™‚

but then today, two different customers recommended good dermatologists without me bringing it up. and a security guard at this beauty supply store i go to stared at me as if i were a leper. and that… made me think.

what it made me think about was how these are all just extreme cases of something i do pretty regularly: ignoring my own discomfort, or even making myself suffer, for no discernible reason.

the things i brought up at the beginning of this post — not brushing my teeth sometimes (disgusting i know), sleeping on the floor, depriving myself of sunlight — i dismissed as bad habits stemming from my laziness. same reason i don’t moisturize, same reason i overeat. MY. FAULT. nobody else’s problem.

but this… this was different. mutilating your own hand, or refusing to see a doctor when your hands look like mine do rn, is not laziness.

it’s self-neglect at best.

i have several hypotheses as to why i behave in this way. i had no good role model for taking care of myself. i expect somebody else to take care of me. i don’t think i deserve to feel good. or i do believe that i deserve to suffer. who the fuck knows. not important (right now).

what’s important is how … normal … it starts to feel after a while. which makes me think of what i said in the previous post about adjusting to the negatives. it was like that for me with taking care of myself: i did very little to begin with, but then over time my expectations of myself in that regard grew less and less.

i’m not counting on anyone to come and rescue me. but i am gonna need to find a way to save me from myself (at the risk of sounding angsty). and i am gonna have to figure out what those reasons are for me.

friends have asked me, begged me almost, to go see a doctor about those hands of mine… i think i might listen.

but for now — do you struggle with something similar in some respect? have you found a way to deal with it?

and this — also directed at myself — please take care of yourselves. even if it means just doing no harm. that’s a start. even if it’s just wearing gloves when it’s cold.

we all deserve it.