GypsyThatIWas
New Here
I nearly killed myself last Saturday. I felt really alone and no one wanted to talk to me except my abusive ex (and at least their manipulation is attention). I struggle to maintain a self-concept. I struggle to break through this giant plexiglass shield that has always surrounded me. I'm always hungry.
I don't really know if anything I do is real. I'm not really aware of myself at any given point. I understand I should be practicing mindfulness but I can't do that without hating myself. It makes logical sense that I cannot adequately give or receive love with another person until I love myself, but I'm worried I'm not really comfortable with that. I'm like a wire hanger someone bent into a straight line but can't put back into a useful form.
So I contemplated the very few options I had to kill myself and, instead, went to bake things. I baked garlic knots and pizza dough. I messaged this elderly man from my reading group to see if he wanted any dropped off at his house and he invited me out for coffee. We met up with an old professor of mine and we ended up going out to a diner and talking about rock and roll all night. It was fun, if weird.
It was a stopgap measure, because now I just hate myself again. I can't live with a constant need for validation. I wish I knew how to be a whole person but I think I need to live the way I do, hopping from experience to experience, staring at my hands and wondering if the skin on them is real, if the walls of my apartment are mine, if I'm ever going to wake up and not feel blunted and muted.
I practice mindfulness. I go to therapy. I run five miles a day. I still can't love myself, which means everything else that could ever make me happy is void.
I don't really know if anything I do is real. I'm not really aware of myself at any given point. I understand I should be practicing mindfulness but I can't do that without hating myself. It makes logical sense that I cannot adequately give or receive love with another person until I love myself, but I'm worried I'm not really comfortable with that. I'm like a wire hanger someone bent into a straight line but can't put back into a useful form.
So I contemplated the very few options I had to kill myself and, instead, went to bake things. I baked garlic knots and pizza dough. I messaged this elderly man from my reading group to see if he wanted any dropped off at his house and he invited me out for coffee. We met up with an old professor of mine and we ended up going out to a diner and talking about rock and roll all night. It was fun, if weird.
It was a stopgap measure, because now I just hate myself again. I can't live with a constant need for validation. I wish I knew how to be a whole person but I think I need to live the way I do, hopping from experience to experience, staring at my hands and wondering if the skin on them is real, if the walls of my apartment are mine, if I'm ever going to wake up and not feel blunted and muted.
I practice mindfulness. I go to therapy. I run five miles a day. I still can't love myself, which means everything else that could ever make me happy is void.