blue skies and daffodils

relevant to my recent post, i had my intake for ed treatment today, and due to some disabilities that interact with the ed, i was referred to an intensive outpatient program the same day. and the only reason i'm not staring down another inpatient stay for psychiatric problems is my "ignore it and hope it goes away" approach to my ed works just a little bit.

i cut off my father's side of the family some time ago. he never treated me well even when he wasn't outright abusing me, and my grandmother fell down the fascist pipeline and became abusive in her own right. it's been about three years since i cut both of them from my life, and longer since i cut my paternal aunt out.

ironic, yes, that my eating disorder relapse is not because of my trauma relapse, but that my trauma relapse is because of my eating disorder relapse.

i think an important part of my recovery is my textile hobbies. the hands-on work is enough to keep me grounded, but not so much that i cannot process emotions during. it's like my breadmaking, i put the emotions into the string and something beautiful emerges.

turns out having severe disability symptoms means i can't cope with trauma as well, so i'm back to being an irritated wound that has nightmares every night and fucking gets off to them.

starting to come to terms with the fact that my abusers didnt hurt me because of attraction or lust but because they could. because i was extra vulnerable as a gullible autistic child who struggled to describe what was happening to me. because i was isolated as a result of many factors outside my control. because it was easy, and they didn't care how it hurt me.

i like to pretend i am much more recovered than i am, and then i am faced with the genuine truth that i would bend over for anyone i am vaguely close to at the drop of a hat. like a beaten dog that cowers and submits at the slightest raised voice or sharp movement, i roll over and beg for scraps of connection.

i think one of the most important things medication did for me was give me the ability to wait before acting on an urge. at first, fifteen minutes. then an hour or two. now, i can say to myself if i still want to self destruct in the morning, i can indulge then.

right now, i am sat on my brother's sofa, watching a documentary with a kitten in my arm.

i am at a point in my recovery where most days, i don't even notice the shift from harmful behaviours to healthy behaviours. i am at a point where i am not purging, or restricting, or hating myself for eating the way i used to.

every so often a post of ours will make the rounds and someone will add a thought in the tags or replies. this time it was about loneliness.

every time the anniversary of a particularly memorable or violent abuse comes round, we find ourself fixated on vent and catharsis content. fics about the aftermath. collage art depicting shared emotions (and ain't that an awful notion. that this is simultaneously rare yet so, so common).

turns out regular boring self care is an important part of recovery. i forgot meds and just spent 3 hours spiralling in the flashback pit.

these days my trauma is less a catastrophic tsunami and more an incessant buzzing. that doesn't make it any less significant. that doesn't make it easy.