I’m holding it together but it’s taking every ounce of strength. It shouldn’t be a surprise that fighting is harder than defeat. Every tiny step forward is a leap of faith, as I push on into the unknown.
I’m doing it. The things they’ve all been telling me to do for years now. Some courage sprouted in me and I began.
Moving forward is full of pain. All the while I can accept that lying still was agony too. Nothing changes if nothing changes. The mantra on repeat gives me a hint of reassurance from time to time. But the people who believe in those things never believed in death like I did.
Death was my friend. Death was a comfort. Death was an unwavering companion, always willing to take me away from this. That disaster was my only hope.
As much as I crave it, no friend can offer me that. They offer love instead. Love that keeps me anchored to the struggle. Love that brings with it the obligation to stay and fight.
They don’t see the blood in the battle. Steel smiles, rehearsed small talk and easy laughter are the perfect armour. I can blend into their world and keep them from stepping into mine.
I wonder if it is a part of healing, or whether this lonely misery is simply a new and different suffering. Released from the dark paralysis, my emotions really do have motion. Feelings come with noises and actions. Tears. Wretched sobbing that aches and burns. Tempers. Destructive, harsh outbursts of some dark energy. Or trembling fear that locks all the doors.
It’s hard to bear. Being closed down and empty comes with certainty. The familiar sense of being finished demands very little. Only waiting. Holding out for the inevitable conclusion. Dropping the things that are too much to carry. Avoiding the things that bring a risk. Existing without expectations.
But to begin again is to be afraid. Beginning is walking into the dark, moving painstakingly without knowing whether what’s ahead is better or worse. It’s leaving behind the hope of escape, and fighting to erase that fantasy which was once the only comfort.
As I strive to live, the agony of my past and present keeps pace, more alive than ever. Cruelly amplified as the result of a hard earned clear head. What a spiteful gift of sobriety.
I am terrified of the change and the newness and a thousand other seemingly minute risks that collaborate and conspire against my hopes.
It is hard to truly desire progress, when progress is so much more pain.
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You have made a big step towards leaving a comfort zone, you deserve a big pat on the back for that. Awaiting disaster and prepping to suffer their consequences is basically the default setting in some of us. So you craving a disaster is normal. But keep taking those steps forward. And I wish you find comfort wherever they lead.
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Thank you for those kind words, and you make a good point about it being default for some of us to be ready for disasters. I hadn’t thought about that, but it makes sense to me.
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I have often wondered to myself when things are particularly bad about the amount of mental effort I put into thinking about and planning death, and why it is that I can’t just redirect all of that energy into more constructive solutions to living, and the best answer I can up with is this: you only have to die once. To plan death is a to plan a single event, one which will solve everything forever, and while you are doing that you can blank out everything else – whereas living requires putting that same effort into staying alive. Every. Single. Day. Over and and over again. It’s exhausting, and sometimes it’s almost impossible to hold onto the belief that it will be worth it. At those times forcing yourself to believe or to trying to weigh the balance of your life is more than you can manage, all you can do is simply commit to living one more day. And then another. You are taking that hard road, the one that involves choosing to stay alive day after day and waiting for it all to go wrong despite your best efforts. But I have seen you speak about days that are not so bad, and even good, and I hope you will hold out for having more of those days in your life.
I admire you so much for taking risks and moving in a new direction despite all of the pain. ❤
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Thanks DV I needed to hear that. You explain it well, and I too have that experience of planning death bringing a sense of relief. It allows me to totally avoid confronting the things that scare me. That’s why it’s so hard to move on from that kind of thinking. Part of me wants to, but another part needs it. I am touched by you saying you admire me. Thank you x
I seriously do admire what you are doing with the houseboat 🙂 I’ve been putting off having some repair work done on my house for several years now because it will mean moving myself and my furniture out for a few weeks and I just can’t face the upheaval and being out of my familiar routine even for that short length of time.
It is a strange and cruel thing, that when we decide we are going to try to get better, it can seem to hurt more. We have to open up all that painful stuff that has been killing us indirectly, and for a while it stabs us so directly, so intensely, and it seems unbearable. It’s hard to keep the faith that it’s going to be worth going through all of that. I really feel for you; it’s so hard. It won’t last forever, you know that, but it’s hard to believe that when you are in the middle of it. The best you can do is take very, very good care of yourself. Let your friends and family love you up. Make time for things that can lift your spirit, if only briefly. Have compassion for your brave self, the beautiful self that wants to love. I admire you for the hard road you are choosing–may it lead you to a better, peaceful place. xxoo, Q.
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It is cruel isn’t it? I know you get how tough it is. It’s so difficult to even find the will to take care of myself on the bad days – and that’s when I need it the most. I’m managing a little more of it in between, so maybe that will naturally become habit forming. It’s difficult to believe in any of it a lot of the time. Thanks for your encouragement and kindness xxx