Over the course of six days, I go from doing extremely well to a sick, quivering mess. Now I have to crawl back, again.
Lately, I don’t think very much about suicide. It’s not that I have been beating down suicidal impulses, but simply that when I’m doing better, I don’t think about dying. But then there was last night.
On the first morning of the retreat, we all read aloud the stories of our wounded inner child. And then we offer one another empathy and wise, tender words.
Monday afternoon, and E is back from her training on self-care. I’ve forewarned her that I’ve lost my enthusiasm for exploring the bat caves, that is, the darker recesses of my psyche. And she in turn has indicated she has every confidence we can get back in there. So there we are, smiling at each…
I’ve done this before, but evidently I need to do it again: I banish doubt and decide to believe the girl.
I find a fantasy-filled visualization helps me change the message of yet another dream about being assaulted.
I learned a lot this year about being compassionate with myself. I think a variety of supports came together for me, and something finally clicked.