The icy feeling I get that runs rampant in my core and takes over my limbs is mostly gone. I can feel some residue lingering but the impulsivity it brings is mostly a memory from yesterday and the days before that.
I am fearful, in the deepest part of my soul, that I’m not lovable as I am. That these hurt parts of me, ruin me—that I am a bad person.
Every pound gained holds more fear than I can process and sometimes there’s so much fear my brain explodes: trying to find safety in the easiest places and turning to the depths of depression when it’s not physically found.
This is a new place in recovery. The parts of me I’m ashamed of are safe enough to be allowed to show up, and it’s not pretty. But it’s necessary—to let them show up—so they can heal, too.
This past week was strange. I felt like I was just meeting (parts of) myself for the first time and also as if I’d known they were there but was intensely angry I couldn’t hide them anymore.
Shame is sideways sometimes. I just wanted to be loved. Every part just wanted to be held. Even if they said they didn’t.