Today I cut myself on a kitchen knife. It was an accident and it hurt, lots. But this is what I used to do to myself on a daily basis without caring of the consequences, longing for the pain but not feeling it enough. I’m not going to say I’ve stopped self-harming, that would unfortunately be a lie but I have stopped cutting in such a deeply destructive (and obviously scarring way).
At the moment life feels like a dream. This is the longest period of vague stability I’ve had in a long time. I’m not going to pretend I’ve become sane or normal but I’m coping well and even find myself enjoying life every now and again. I have a boyfriend, a house, a puppy. These things seemed unimaginable when I found myself discharged from hospital last summer. It is unreal. When I was young, I has a misplaced belief that my life was just someone elses dream. My waking hours were when they slept and vice versa. This is how it feels again. I have to pinch myself to understand that it is real and that it’s happening to me.
I worry I’m flying too high, that it is unsustainable. I think I may be invincible, nothing can touch me. Who knows? Let’s not analyse it too much and enjoy it while I can.
I’m scared of publishing this. Apparently if you smoke, there’s nothing worse than a reformed ex-smoker. I don’t want to become the reformed ex-mentalist who preaches recovery from a smug, seemingly unachievable position. It was only January that I was back in the too depressed to get out of bed zone. I’m not an ex-mentalist by a long shot but that’s not for this post; this is to celebrate the positives and how far I’ve come.