There are tattoos there now, but to hide the scars. It boggles my mind that people have wrists without scars.
I taught my therapist a new word today.
So, there’s that.
Her: You seem to have a really difficult time putting into words what you’re thinking and feeling.
Me: Yes. I score off the charts on the Toronto Alexithymia Scale.
Her: The WHAT? Alexithymia?
Me: “Without words for feelings.”
I feel absolutely worthless and hopeless at the moment.
I want to quit recovery and I can’t.
For the love of Nancy (heh), can somebody please tell me why I am in tears over any little thing tonight? I expected this *last* fall, when I was fresh out of treatment, all doe-eyed and panicked that any little misstep could be the end of my recovery and thus, the end of my graduate school experience.
But I am solidly in recovery for a year now. I have a full year of graduate classes under my belt, with a 4.0 to boot. I have professors insisting that I apply to doctoral programs.
And yet, on the eve of classes, I am crying over finances and clothes and friends and racism.
I don’t know how I’m going to keep it all together tomorrow.
(And no, I don’t get my period for another three weeks.)
Will all my evening meds be enough to knock me out in the face of 10 oz of diet soda and stress bordering on panic?
Or will I stay up another three hours being unproductive, then finally fall asleep for three hours and then get up to be utterly unproductive for the first day of class?
One day, I’ll get to do this again.
Just another reason to recover.