Some days I think I'm miles ahead of the dark hole I fell into last winter. I walk out of my therapist's office like hell yeah, I'm awesome, so much better now, mad props to me. I remember the countless things to enjoy in life and rejoice over the fact that 85% of the time if I come into contact with another human I don't shrivel up and cry. That's big. I can kind of even hold conversations some days. Progressprogressprogress.
But then there's those really dark nights where I forget all of this and feel like I'm nose down in the dirt of my grave once more. I'm better in some ways, but maybe a hundred times worse in other ways. Maybe I replaced my social anxiety disorder with another illness. Times like those I can almost see the automatic hospital doors swing open with that one nurse who first greeted me, waiting with open arms and holy shit I could get admitted again like next week, I'm so crazy.
But this is not the case. I'm 18 now, so if I was ever sectioned again, I wouldn't be in the youth ward and likely wouldn't see that nurse again. I'm an ~adult~ now with responsibilities and I've already been there/done that with most forms of therapy which means really I haven't got any more time to waste being sick. I just need to hurry up and be... better already.
I have no idea what better entails. I guess better does not mean best. I don't need to be best. I just get so tired and uninspired living one day at a time, coping, struggling, coping, struggling. I'm so confused. I think a part of me never wants to be fully recovered and mentally stable. There's a certain beauty in seeing the dark side of things. Maybe I like being crazy. Maybe I like the little pillow/blanket fort of self destructive thoughts in my brain that I occasionally crawl into. I really don't know, about much of anything right now, and I guess that's okay.
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