It hit me like a bus. "I have some news." Never words you want to hear from your therapist. "Further treatment has been denied." They will allow me to fill out my discharge papers tomorrow, other than that I'm gone as of today.
My eyes swell up and tears run down. My throat closes. I'm not ready. My hands are trembling, my feet are numb. I'm not ready. I wish I'd never come. I wish I'd never tried. Things continue, right on schedule, but nothing is the same for me. I don't see the point in trying anymore. I don't have any choices. My life will return to exactly how it was before - I don't have time to change it. On the plus side I can now exercise as much as I want, drink occasionally, and enjoy as much caffeine as my body desires...at any hour of the day. I can go to the bathroom alone and not have to count if I do. I'm transitioning from this life of recovery to a poisonous environment that suffocates, and eventually, engulfs me.
Process my feelings? I'm pissed off. Insurance is validating this notion I have that I'm fine.
I'm fine. I'm not ready. Two contrasting thoughts. Two different minds. Two separate minds. Two voices. Two personalities. I want to spiral off and fall further just to stick it to insurance. I want never slip up again to prove to everyone I'm stronger than this. I want to cry. I am crying. I'm not ready. At the same time I smirk. I can use this to my advantage. I can go right back to where I was - blissfully ignorant and ignorantly happy. Isn't that what I want? No, not at all! Right?
Ready or not, here I come.
Ready or not, here I come.
Awe ppphhhhhhuuuucccckkkkk. You said everything I felt too. Some moments I'm still really fucking pissed off. I haven't found a therapist. I haven't called a therapist. A week and a half I'm still wandering... Lost... And then I turn around and see I did something I had not been able to do in the past 10 years. I don't know what it means or where it is going. If you wanna hang call me. Xoxoxoxoxoxoxo, mykle
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