You Cannot Stop Me

I have so many rules for myself. Even when my goal is to lessen my own stress, I set rules: Don't pick at your face. Don't strip your cuticles. Approach exercise mindfully. When anxiety besets you, stop and wait, because the feeling will pass.

If I break one of the rules, if my state of mind fails to be optimally healthy, then I chastise myself. Which doesn't necessarily push me in a positive direction. It reinforces my absurd self-hatred, and the sense that I shouldn't even try because I will always be a disappointment.

// Quinn Dombrowski //

But really, I feel like I'm getting better and better. Today I am more balanced and sane than a week ago, and so on. Progress is scary. The more functional I am, the more I have to lose.

There are some indulgences that I cling to, like binge-watching TV. When I was suicidal in my little dorm room at Reed, I watched episode after episode of Malcolm in the Middle, stewing in misery, ready to break when touched. I remember sitting in that square "modern" chair, facing my desk, with my arms around my knees.

It's different now. I'm different. Things inside of me have moved. It's taken mountains to move them, if you know what I mean. Small knots that I've been clutching for years needed glacial shifts to start unraveling. The metaphor doesn't make sense, but I hope you understand anyway. I feel tender, like a bruise.