the summer love that should never have been and a reminder that nothing in life is linear.
**trigger warning**
It’s been two years since my last therapy session. I guess I hadn’t realized how much I needed it again until recently.
The need for therapy became unavoidably apparent when I felt the quite shocking and sudden urge to cut myself this past month—something I hadn’t experienced since High School, nearly three decades ago.
The internal turmoil boiling inside me to such a degree that I no longer knew how to release the pain; suddenly wrestling with the constant sensation of needing to claw myself open just to feel some relief. It’s like standing in front of a screaming kettle, but having no idea how to remove it from the burner or turn the stove off.
I had been already experiencing clusters of panic attacks accompanied by vomiting and fainting for the entire month prior. Eczema began erupting in painful patches on my hands and chest. Clumps of hair collected in the shower drain. Weight dropped into the double digits. Constantly terrified my toddler would find me passed out in the hallway because I suddenly couldn’t breathe. Not to mention the comments from friends.
“You’ve stopped painting.”
“When are you going to write again?”
“You’re too skinny.”
“You don’t seem happy.”
“I never see you anymore.”
“Are you okay?”
I look in the mirror now and I don’t recognize myself. It’s like looking at the transparent exoskeleton of a discarded cicada shell. Nothing inside, only a fragile amber exterior painted in expensive self tanner and Charlotte Tilbury, careful to conceal any signs of pain behind a perfectly curated wardrobe. It’s a strange phenomenon to go from such a sound, confident woman to someone who wants to hurt themselves just to feel a contrast to the stark, emotional pain they’re in.