One week out from the overdose. I knew it was going to be a tough weekend. And it was. All I did was try to distract my mind from dwelling too much over it. So many if-onlys. If only I had died. If only the pain could end. Don’t get me wrong. I’m in no way saying that I would do that again. Far from it. I don’t ever want to put myself through that hell again. Maybe it’d be a different type of hell. It’ll be hell one way or another, I guess. Who am I kidding?
But I don’t have a stash anymore. Even the hidden ones were stripped away from me by C. You can’t imagine the shame of having been found out. How could I have known that even the hollowed out book where I thought would be safe was not? In some ways I feel as though I’d been violated. And that feeling in turn triggers one of pure hate and righteous anger. I have no right to feel that way, and yet I do.
So many thoughts, so many feelings I didn’t need. So I went to the pool on Saturday and swam laps for an hour. Sunday I went for a half hour run before jumping into the pool to swim for another hour. All that, as if I could really put distance behind me.
It’s futile, really. Everything I’ve done so far is self destructive, fuelled by an underlying current of self loathing.
Still, not having a stash to fall back on could be a major advantage for me to progress in therapy. V has always said that the pills are only a short term solution. It also prevents me from employing the skills I’ve been taught because it was always easy to fall back on the pills. Now I have to be awake and alive during therapy and without the safe protective shield of the pills.
I know that’s going to hurt more.