It feels more like I'm barely treading water these days, coming up for a frantic gasp of air when I break free from the cold, heavy depths. This place that I used to be able to skim the surface, like a waterbug, keeping a light tenuous touch because I was aware that breaking the peace could break the tension... it has become disrupted, like soap droplets upon the surface, making it impossible to walk the fragile bonds I weave like a spider, wary of her own web. I cannot breathe. I feel so disconnected. I'm dizzy, I'm panicky, my chest is tight, my body aches... and still, I'm not certain it's any physical bug or sickness I'm experiencing. If it weren't for the fever, I would think "yes, this is it... the heavy cowl of depression, come to drag me down again" ... this is a familiar feeling. But am I sick because I'm stressed, or am I stressed because I'm sick?
The combination of the two is killing me. I can't seem to regain my footing.
I tell myself, this is part of the Healing too, but I don't know how to navigate this on my own. I used to be able to keep track of which way was up, even when deep underwater... but I'm loosing my sight of the surface. It's hard to believe that I'll ever find a romantic relationship that suits me, therefore why bother trying to be better? Isn't that why I originally tried to quit the drinking? For healthy stable relationships in the future? ... but I'm the unhealthy one. I'm the poisoner, and the only way I know how is to poison.
But still... why did I wake up after yet another pity binge-drink, full of determination to make this one my last? Why didn't I delay another day where I had nothing to do but be ill and feel sorry for myself... the perfect setup for postponing a hangover by drinking all day... why did I wake up this morning, so sick the smell of the rotten vile poison hitting the stainless steel of the sink was enough to send me upstairs to vomit, before I could rest peacefully, knowing the half-bag of vile lies was no longer in my stomach or my house?
I slept solidly, as though the blackout masquerading as a restful evening had never happened. But now that I'm clear-headed enough to reflect on my actions, I am befuddled. I have never before poured the wine out unless I was deep in the depths of hangover-sickness, swearing never to drink again. No, this was completely different. Even in the wine-dark depths, something stirs, and swirls, and wants to live.
Something with a light hanging out, not to lure, but to comfort in those queasy deeps.
I've been going through something of an awakening these past weeks. I grasped some of this during my first bout with IOP, when I stopped dyeing my hair, shaving my body hair, or wearing makeup... but even then, I wasn't grasping the true concept of self-validation. I wasn't doing those small self-care things because I didn't have anyone to perceive me, and had no plans to seek someone to be close enough to, to notice. I explored doing those things to see if I felt joy in them, but honestly, I feel better when I'm maintained.
I like wearing makeup, I like dressing, I like projecting my personality through my appearance and actions. What I'm questioning is to what extent I do this for external validation. I dabbled in online dating recently, but not because I felt any great longing... but because my friend was dating and I felt left out. I had no desire to take the burden of being perceived and judged by another for the possibility of a romantic connection, because I think I am finally understanding what it means to love oneself.
It's every bit as difficult as maintaining a healthy, intimate relationship with another human being.
So, this coming year will be one of trying to love myself, and to live a life that I find easy to love. One that I am an active participant in, not a ghost, or a thing submerged and crying in a bitter sea, lost and without guidance for want of a polar star. We are blessed with an internal compass, and it points steadfast at the Next Right Thing, and I've been ignoring those gut feelings for so long, trying to maintain some semblance of control. I thought that I'd find my Person, and they could possibly guide me out of here, but I don't think that's reasonable, not when I have so many things in my past I did because I did not love myself, nor follow my internal moral bearing. I try to rewrite or retcon these unpleasant things, pointing my finger at others who were around the worst parts of me and had internal struggles of their own, and yet I expected to be the heroine when I began writing these stories down. Why not, it's my fairy tale...? But this isn't fiction.
I choke back tears, feeling turmoil of emotions I do not want to face, but I no longer have the luxury of avoiding. They swirl around in my wine-pickled guts, as painful and poisonous as any physical disruption of the digestive tract, and I know I must purge or the sickness will get worse before it processes naturally.
It's poisoning me, it's poisoning me from the inside, and I have to purge in the way I fear to tread... self-reflection, with a therapist's guided help. Lord help me, this is going to be difficult.