On the difficulties of improving oneself.

My therapist once told me that my inability to stick to my goals could be due to me comparing myself to others. After some retrospection, I realized that I was comparing myself to my past self far more than I would to others.

I remembered that conversation because of a tweet in which people were talking about what their 16 year old self would think of their present self. My past self would be both disgusted and disappointed with present me. I have become everything I once hated.

I’m unable to start anything because I’m terrified of failing. I hate how broken my body is. I hate that I can’t control my eating disorder. I hate that I’ve become reliant on my hubby to survive and most of all I hate that I don’t have a career. Or a degree.

Now the therapist might say that these things are beyond my control since I’m sick. But my depression tells me that I’m weak and I should give up because I’m to broken to do anything.

When my health started failing I was very optimistic. I’d do my physiotherapy, take my medication and go to clinic religiously. As I lost motor functions, I’d tell myself “its alright. I can do something else.” And so I did. I kept changing to new interests as I lost the ability to do the old ones. When they put me on steroids and I turned from someone who looks anorexic to someone who was strggling to keep the weight off. I told myself that it was fine. “At least if I’m fat, no one would sexually harass me anymore.” When it eventually got to the point were my body started punishing me when I slept, exercised or ate I could no longer lie to myself.

As the years have gone by and I’ve lost everything I used to be proud of. These platitudes no longer motivate me to better myself. I’m so depressed I can’t even bring myself to eat some days. It all feels so pointless.

Darling is trying to motivate me to exercise and improve my diet. And so I want to try again. But I’m afraid of tearing my muscles or hurting myself. It doesn’t take much these days before my body gets so inflamed that I can only cry in bed as I wait for it to pass. I can no longer tell if that’s an excuse or me voicing a valid concern.


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