'The spoon theory is a disability metaphor and neologism used to explain the reduced amount of energy available for activities of living and productive tasks that may result from disability or chronic illness. ... A person who runs out of spoons has no choice but to rest until their spoons are replenished.'
Admittedly, it made a fraction of sense as I've often felt a sandwich short of a picnic when I'm having a down day. Only apparently instead I should be saying I'm spoons short of cutlery..⁇😐
Anyway, moving on from the weird title...
Today I still wasn't feeling my usual self. And it's frustrating not being yourself, not feeling in control of your mind, wanting to be bubbly and confident and getting on with things but instead being this half-numb, shell-shocked version that looks and sounds like you, but it doesn't feel like you. Even on slightly better days such as today you hear yourself laughing and you feel your mouth turn up into a smile; but it doesn't meet your eyes, it doesn't feel warm inside. Inside you're screaming. You're writhing in a skin that's yours and yet feels alien and cold. And you're saying you're fine but mostly because you dont know how to explain to someone that not only do you have multiple voices screaming derogatory and demeaning things about you constantly, but you also feel like your body has been replaced, or that someone performed a lobotomy in my sleep and locked me out of the control centre of my brain.
But I called my wonderful grandmother who I can always rely on to be there when I need her. I followed through with my plans to cook and bake, and whilst I had her by my side, I reminded myself I was worthy; she thought I was worth spending time with. My auntie, who invited me to spend time with her tomorrow because she heard I wasn't feeling great, thinks I'm worth spending time with. Not only that, I must have felt worthy because I asked for help. I reached out and told my mum I was struggling, and then I reached out again when I didn't want to be alone. I avoided self-harm, I kept myself as sane as I could, and I am here to tell you about it so whilst it's frustrating and painful, I'm so proud of myself. I actually spoke to my nan about my self-harm scars and how far I've come from being completely psychotic and suicidal 3 years ago to at least mildly managing today.
So as much as the last two days have been hell, I've been through way tougher and way more harmful days and so I'm not going to beat myself up for having a relapse. It happens to the best of us. And as I struggle to sleep one more night, as my thoughts consume me and the isolation closes in, I will remember that I am a warrior. A survivor. I have fought so hard to have the privilege of one day being happy. And I am, sometimes. For tonight, that's enough for self-compassion. I can be ill and still love myself and give myself the time to recover. I'm growing stronger every day and I'm not the person I was last year, let alone 3 years ago.
I can do this. I can manage, even on my darkest days. I believe in myself.
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