EnViA

I've been journaling for a year and a half already, I've created my curriculum in the same span, along with crafts and interest I've had before. I've set up my laptop to be the only thing I can use to go to any sight that resembles and drowning draw of social media, though, I'm less likely to scroll through phone sized videos on my laptop. I'm back to the basics, back to how it was just a year before COVID. Except the roleplaying with other people, that I am not sure I will ever get back, which is saddening.

But now what?

Diagnosed nearly 3 years ago, after a really bad year of highs and lows that began to make me feel like I was not myself. I've always had it before, but pregnancy, hormones, removing my implant had revived the little beast within me, unknowingly unaware that it had grown in it's hibernation.

The absolute untethering inside me head; the conscious thought of seeing what was happening around me, the logical response, or at least the usual one flooding my thoughts and filling my tongue with reactions readied up only to have a different flame, that did not feel like my own, burn through me and spew its fire at the people I loved, the people I cared for, and what was more, spun that twisted mirror of my mother right back to me.

I saw the thread, the repetition, the generations of what was happening again and again, ever unchanged, and I hated it. That hate turned toward myself, dug under the reactions that were ever increasing as though it were being nested and taken care of by it's roar. Nothing can be wrong if I was loud or demanding enough.

But my bones felt tense, my body not my own; my head felt ready to split in two not from pain but the consistent feeling that I was not me, while also being entirely myself.

I wanted to figure it out, change my diet, find the right solution through supplements or prescribed pills. Nothing really stuck, a few things shrank the nest of terror and depression, diluting the self-loathing and anxiety of never being enough to just a bubble I could smoke away. But in the end, I decided to go back onto my birth control implant.

It worked..... somewhat. I am not cured. I did have disasters that tear through my home in messes of mania. Wanting to cleanse the house; throw it all away and start over; thinking I can do it all; believing in myself, in my art, my writing. Only for the next week to send me prone in my bed with the tiny voice of never being enough whispering in my head.

My interpretation? Power. And to me thats what matters. MY craft. MY intuition. MY gut telling me what I did was strong, and it worked.

Others may see otherwise, and that is okay.

We've began to rely on others on how to do it. Like it is a dictionary or a leveled how-to. While advice and understanding is good to ask and figure out (especially when not wishing to offend another culture or practice), sometimes it can go against your own instincts and intuition.