(no subject)
So I decided to do some research. I always feel like since I don't cut, my problem isn't considered as 'serious' as those who do. But I figured, hey, I might as well figure out whether or not I do have a problem once and for all so I can stop feeling guilty. I know some of my friends have had cutting problems; I don't mean to make light of that at all. But there are times when I feel silly having the problem I do, and then that keeps me from taking it seriously enough to deal with it.
So I figured I had nothing to lose by looking into it.
Aw fuck. So I finally get off my ass to combat the reversal slide back that I've been ignoring since I stopped therapy, and of course I relearn why I didn't get more help in the first fucking place:
My problem is a fucking minority disorder. Which means all the self-help and support groups are for the cutters and ODers --you know, the ones who if they screw up they'll actually DIE-- and there's very little on how to help me and very little to make me feel like this isn't just some weird psychotic addiction I have.
Fabulous. And trichotillomania is something I've picked up in addition to my primary self-harm behavior, so helping to fix even that doesn't address my primary problem. Joy. Fucking fantastic. DOES NOT APPLY.
Just like every thing else doesn't apply. Fabulous. Could I get in a tinier box?
Watched the season finale of the Bachelor last night, and that was depressing. If an intelligent, sophisticated, gorgeous, ethical, vivacious sweetheart like Sadie loses out to a waddling stick with a psychotic asshole father, then what hope can I possibly have?
This is compounded by the fact that today I looked on facebook, and saw one of my dormmates from Exeter is A) married, B) lives and work in Taipei.
I know I shouldn't compare myself with others, but seriously? Depressing.
But hey, I should probably see that as a positive thing.
Because no husband would possibly be happy with what I've done to myself. I dread the proverbial wedding night festivities.
I lose.
So now I'm going to go and, I don't know, work on my nano which will not be successful --I'm 40k shy of my combined goal of 100k, and the secondary project is all over the place. Damnit.
So yeah, no longer on the exhausted end of drained. More like emotionally sagging.
So I figured I had nothing to lose by looking into it.
Aw fuck. So I finally get off my ass to combat the reversal slide back that I've been ignoring since I stopped therapy, and of course I relearn why I didn't get more help in the first fucking place:
My problem is a fucking minority disorder. Which means all the self-help and support groups are for the cutters and ODers --you know, the ones who if they screw up they'll actually DIE-- and there's very little on how to help me and very little to make me feel like this isn't just some weird psychotic addiction I have.
Fabulous. And trichotillomania is something I've picked up in addition to my primary self-harm behavior, so helping to fix even that doesn't address my primary problem. Joy. Fucking fantastic. DOES NOT APPLY.
Just like every thing else doesn't apply. Fabulous. Could I get in a tinier box?
Watched the season finale of the Bachelor last night, and that was depressing. If an intelligent, sophisticated, gorgeous, ethical, vivacious sweetheart like Sadie loses out to a waddling stick with a psychotic asshole father, then what hope can I possibly have?
This is compounded by the fact that today I looked on facebook, and saw one of my dormmates from Exeter is A) married, B) lives and work in Taipei.
I know I shouldn't compare myself with others, but seriously? Depressing.
But hey, I should probably see that as a positive thing.
Because no husband would possibly be happy with what I've done to myself. I dread the proverbial wedding night festivities.
I lose.
So now I'm going to go and, I don't know, work on my nano which will not be successful --I'm 40k shy of my combined goal of 100k, and the secondary project is all over the place. Damnit.
So yeah, no longer on the exhausted end of drained. More like emotionally sagging.