So Much Better

Twice this week I’ve heard, “You’re doing so much better,” first, from my therapist, then today, from my case manager. I should have asked them exactly how they reached this conclusion considering I feel the same as I did last year — even 5 or 10 years ago, or longer. The fears and anxiety are all still there. The inability to consistently leave my home or interact with other people are still a problem. The constant “thought wars,” voices, or whatever you want to call them, rage on. I would venture to guess that the lack of motivation as well as the lack of concentration and focus have only worsened. The external distractions are as bad as the internal ones, even with the move. And the worst part is I still have suicidal thoughts and thoughts of self-harm on a daily basis. Granted, neither my therapist nor my case manager knows the frequency or extent of these thoughts or how these thoughts affect my life since I’ve vehemently REFUSED to discuss them from day one. No good ever came from my disclosing these thoughts in the past; so I have no reason to believe now would be any different.

I can’t help but wonder if I’m wrong. I worry that talking about certain things will only make them worse.

The part of me that wants to continue hiding behind the mask of “everything is fine,” won’t allow me to be honest with anyone about the intensity of the emotional turmoil I experience, not even with KR. The part that is screaming at me to say something, anything, remains silent under the threat of violence from an internal source that has proven to me time and time again that threat is warranted. I keep thinking, “Maybe this is as good as get.” Maybe feeling like a basket case on the inside while projecting perfect calm and compliance on the outside is just how “normalcy” works. If I’m better because everyone else thinks I’m fine, does that make it so? Sometimes, I get so tired of pretending that I just want to do something desperate and impulsive. Because I can usually control these impulses and urges, does that make me better? And if I couldn’t control them, would anyone even notice? I’m beginning to think it really doesn’t matter anyway. Maybe that’s the way everyone feels.


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