I’ve been sat in the same uncomfortable chair at 7 PM for two Mondays straight, starring at a brown stain on the wall in the corner by the door ready to bolt any second. Feeling like a fraud, like an alcoholic coming to an AA meeting drunk. Not making eye contact with the woman sitting across from me because I cannot bear to see her nodding along to everything I say with an expression that can only be described as someone watching a puppy get suffocated by a plastic bag. Listening to her explain to me over and over again, how she appreciates how private, what I’m sharing with her is and how difficult it must be.
Two weeks. I’m two hours of therapy richer and £100 poorer.
Last week my generously paid therapist (I’m still salty, how expensive this is) asked me if I had ever thought, what I would be like if I didn’t have the problems that I have?
Who would depression, childhood trauma and eating disorder free Simona be?
Would she be much different than who I am now? Maybe she’d actually like celery, or perhaps she would know how to surf, or perhaps she’d like house music? I fucking hope she wouldn’t like house music.
I’ve come to realise that I’m exhausted being the way I am, but I also don’t know any other way. I’ve never not been like this, I’ve never had a healthy relationship with food, I’ve never had a non-toxic father figure. So how the fuck am I supposed to imagine myself any other way?
Apparently, according to the human version of any 90s overly empathetic mom character bobblehead, my lack of acceptance and my coping mechanism of ignoring shit, ain’t that healthy for me. News flash.
It’s like letting go of a part of me. What do I fill it with? ‘Cause puppies and fucking cupcakes ain’t gonna cut it this time.
I’m frustrated, of course, I am. I’m lashing out now. I’m being a dick for no reason other than the fact that letting go of all the bad shit is like stripping me away part of my identity. It’s easier to suffer and self-sabotage than have to figure this clusterfuck out myself.
I’m now journaling everything I eat and drink as part of the CBT approach to my ED. There is nothing more fun (please notice the sarcasm) than having to put on paper everything I’ve eaten, drank and how many times I threw up last night. Putting things on paper feels so final, there’s no correcting in it, no taking it back, no erasing it. I don’t like it. I also don’t like owning up to my shit, so I guess as far as techniques for acceptance go, this must be fucking working.
It’s hard taking a moment to ask yourself the hard questions, but it must be done. So here I am, asking myself again:
Who is Simona? Does my mental health really define me to the extent, whereas a human being I no longer hold any other value if I was to get better? Why am I so scared of letting go, getting better and becoming someone else even if that someone else was to be a fan of house music?
I’ve always found beauty in twisted love stories and tragedy. Parts of me want my life to be tragic, a cliche tortured soul. Is getting better giving up the sick fantasy of suffering? Do I find comfort in the darkest parts of myself?
For years I’ve self-sabotaged. Something I’ve always struggled to explain. I sabotage relationships, diets, my progress in pretty much anything.
“Most would like to remain in a familiar hell, rather than an unknown bliss.” – source
I guess somehow I’ve created ‘home’ and ‘security’ in suffering and therefore I continuously find ways to seek it for a sense of familiarity.
Who is ‘normal’ Simona? What does ‘normal’ even mean?
Lots of questions and very little answers this time. If you’ve made it to the end of the post, well, you must enjoy suffering too.
Kindness. The world needs more kindness, and I should start with myself.