Dear Bee,
This is the part I hate. The owning-up-to-the-fucking-up. Even though I have some sense of anonymity on this blog, I still want to be that shining star who succeeds in recovery, who doesn’t mess up, who can be a source of inspiration for everyone. Yes, I’m still perfectionistic, and yes, I still have a need to impress. It’s a long, dirty habit I’m really trying to break.
Anyway.
I feel hypocritical because I’m not practicing the self-care and self-love I encourage my clients to embody. I’m not taking good care of myself in the way I’m taking care of them. It’s so amazing how nonjudgmental I can be towards any of their self-perceived baggage, but when I slip in recovery, it’s a complete all-or-nothing failure.
I know I’m stressed. School is going to be overwhelming. I had five clients before my three-hour class. I am lost with two of my clients. One has Borderline Personality Disorder and the other I suspect has Borderline traits. Both are elderly, and neither are willing to change or grow much. It’s hard to be in the room with them. I like my teenage clients best, and I saw them all today. I don’t miss high school, that’s for damn sure.
My eating is alternating; my exercise is alternating. Some days, I know I’m overdoing it, and others I’m not doing enough. Moderation, it seems, bores me. The erratic is more glamorous. The chaos keeps it exciting. I guess. I’m used to being anxious, used to being frustrated and insecure and unsure and essentially frightened.
My body isn’t a fucking trash can. It’s a temple. I need to take care of it, love it, honor it as i would for any holy place. I wouldn’t treat an enemy the way I sometimes treat my own body. That’s the cold truth, and it’s a tough one to swallow.
Going to bed.
The struggle is real, but tomorrow will be better.
