On Hope, On Perfection, On Who-The-Heck-Am-I?
It hits me in the stomach, a gnawing, empty feeling. I'm hungry, and my muscles scream at me for nourishment. Eating means moving, eating means opening fridges and cupboards and looking for sustenance and right now I'm far more content to sit here feeling my body responding.
I'm used to passion in my life, over-whelming, heart-wrenching, suicidal, passion. Yet, currently I'm living in a strange comfort, where I need not worry about my relationships, my health, my finances, because there is a level of security I've never had before.
Where I am now is a place I have spent years running from. This security feels so final, as if everyday for the rest of my life could be this secure. That I'd be able to take risks with ideas and activities because there are people cheering my corner. There are people to pick me up and comfort me if it all goes wrong.
Times where I feel like ending it all and giving up don't last as long, the lows, as prolonged as they are, seem to lift eventually. It's days instead of months. There's a nagging hope in the back of my mind that the bad days are becoming less and less. My immediate 'kill yourself' reaction is not as forceful.
I'm contemplating that my life might have some value.
I don't want to say that my whole reason for being 'ok-er' is because maybe, finally, my psychiatrist and I have discovered the right medications, but that is, and will remain a possibility while I'm swallowing tablets morning and night.
My weeks are marked by medication packets and weekly visits to Patrick in Boots. Every three months I'm given the chance to bare all my sordid thoughts, ones that I keep quiet and hidden from even the closest people in my life. How lucky I am to live in a country that allows me free access to health care. How lucky I am that I have doctors that listen to me and care.
How lucky I am.
An iron fist clamps down on the extremes. Extremes are dangerous and have a tendency to gather friends and enemies. They have the ability to consume rationality. Letting out even a little bit is a threat of a storm that'll destroy everything in it's wake.
When I was 20 at university, a woman came up to speak to myself and a friend. She held our hands and told me that I was a woman in my prime. That this was the time I grew into myself, my body, my soul, my mind.
I never saw her again.
Six years on. I might just be seeing myself from her point of view, finally.
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