They teach us in therapy and psychiatry treatment that happiness is not the goal. What we should seek, they say, is the ability of looking outside and being stable.
Today you did not cut yourself, you did not throw up, you did not self-sabotaged. Today is day one.
And then there is day two. And day three. And 344566 days in a row. And you keep counting. You never really know what’s the safe number, so you just keep on counting.
Happiness is a lie we tell ourselves, I heard them say. It is not what keeps you from hurting yourself, it is not what keeps you sane. Happiness is what prevents you from objectively looking at yourself. If you’re happy and sick, that’s cause you’re kinda blind.
But it makes sense. It looks logical, cause every time you try to hold on to your happiness, you end up scattered all over the place, heart in hand and all.
So you go for it.
But you only need the light when it`s burning low. Only miss the sun when it starts to snow. Only know you’ve been high when you feeling low. Only hate the road when you’re missing home. Only know you love her when you let her go. And you let her go.
So you look at yourself - there, in the verge of things. Picking up pieces of your soul to remind yourself who you are. Feeling like a failure cause all you do is let people down - your therapist, your doctor, your bother, your boss, your friends, yourself. Thinking that maybe… Maybe if they think there’s something wrong with who you are, so maybe there is. Maybe it is not just depression, anxiety and bulimia. Maybe you just no good.
Self hate is staring at you. It is asking permission to return home. To crawl into your chest and sleep there, until you can’t remember why the hell you got rid of it in the first place - after all it only tells the truth.
There is this hope. Coming from someplace you can’t put your finger on. You would guess it is your stubbornness.
This thing he told you, the only one you trust. He said “Let it go. It’ll come back. When it’s time”.
You stand still in silence for seconds, minutes, hours, years...
And you let her go.