I Am So Proud Of Me

Today is Sunday, mes amis, and I haven't done a thing.

I didn't wake up until one o'clock, so even though it's eight thirty, I've only been awake for seven and a half hours. I haven't brushed my hair. (I have, however, brushed my teeth.) I haven't gotten dressed. I haven't gone outside. I haven't washed my dishes, haven't done my laundry, haven't gone to see a movie, haven't gone to the coffee shop to write.

I have done literally nothing but watch crap on hulu since I woke up at 1:00PM today.

A couple of hours ago, I realised that I was feeling vaguely bad about something. The kind of vague bad feeling that quickly spirals down into the Pit of Cyclical Self-Hate if you don't watch out. Incomplete, unfinished, guilty--all of those old friends, you know the ones. So I stopped what I was doing. I paused the video, slowed my breathing, and had a little heart-to-heart with myself.

This is what I discovered:

I was feeling guilty for having done nothing much today. I was mad at myself for not doing more, not trying harder. I was beating up on myself for it.

It was that damn Harsh Inner Monologue again, the one that stuns even trained therapists.

Flannery! Do we need to have that talk about self-compassion again? Apparently, we do.

Let's review:

This time three years ago, I was starting my first really hard-core downward slide, cycle dieting with breathtaking speed--down ten pounds one week, up fifteen the next, lather, rinse, repeat. This time two years ago, I was so depressed that even the level of activity I have exhibited today would have been out of my reach. This time last year, I was in denial about my ability to handle both school and recovery, and was very close to failing out.

But every day, I worked on my recovery.

Every day, I woke up. Sometimes it was only for an hour, somewhere in the afternoon, but I got up. I ate when I wanted to starve, and forgave myself when I wanted to binge. I kept going. When I couldn't, I worked to forgive myself, so that I could try again. I learned to interrupt my Harsh Inner Monologue, to stop it before it could get on a roll. I learned to trust the opinion of my treatment team, and to have faith in the recovery process. I learned that just because it's something I've always thought, that doesn't mean it's something that is true.

A lot of the people in my life will never truly understand the depth of the pit out of which I have dragged myself. I've lost some friends to it--but I've gained others, who I hope will be in my life a long time. You know who you are.

Looking back on it now, I cannot believe what I have pushed myself through.

And look at me now!

Now, I work 36 hours over six days each week, sometimes more. Five of those days I work the opening shift, which means I have to be there by 8:30AM. I spend several nights each week with other people. In fact, I spent Friday night with friends. I spent Wednesday night with friends! I write poetry again. I write fiction (albeit very slowly) again.

This week alone I've written three poems, two chapters, and a few blog posts. I've gone to work every day except today--and will be going back tomorrow--and dealt with all its petty drama with aplomb. I hung out with my friends twice.

Two years ago, I would not have been able to do one of those things. A year ago, I would not have been able to do half of those things. Six months ago, I would not have been able to do all those things together.

But, while I'm so much better, I do still suffer from depression. I do still have a tendency to push myself too far too quickly and thereby run the risk of relapse. I do still have a limited amount of motivation to work with, and I do still have to work daily at forgiving myself for that lack of perfection.


So, Flannery, as for today--

MAYBE YOU JUST NEEDED A BREAK.