When I try to find compassion, I am met with incredible resistance. To be clear, I meet myself with frustrating resistance. Anger-filled push-back.
Is this the eating disorder?
How quickly I became one with it, if it is. And how quickly I lost the ability to discern for myself, if it is.
I have to find a teaspoon of compassion so I can show up for myself tomorrow. To therapy, that is.
I’m worried it won’t be found, panicked, even. The little girl in me wants someone to pull her off the ledge she didn’t walk up to herself, and the rest of me wants to push me off. The rest of me is acting like I’ve been bitten by a rabid wolf and there is no hope or return for me.