Yes, I am able to think of the little achievements I have made this week. And they feel even more significant when I reflect on where I’ve come from.
There’s a way to go yet. I’m not naive enough to think it’s all sorted. Last week showed me that. This morning when I rocketed from ‘slightly agitated’ to ‘chucking things angry’ reminded me forcefully of that.
But. I can see changes. I can hold tiny moments in my heart and feel joy in them. It might not last. How relieved am I that they’re happening at all? Indescribably so. My children holding hands. The look on my son’s face when his big sister and I told him how brilliant his dinosaur picture was. The colour of the clouds in the sky at sunset. The pattern in a piece of wood.
I have begun meditation. I downloaded an app. I like it and I’m finding it helpful already. Me. Someone who believed I was beyond help. Someone who thought my mind only functioned in one way-the messiest way possible.
I’m listening to my therapist and allowing her to help me. Me. The person who trusts no one quite frankly.
I have submitted 3 paintings. I have no expectation of anything. But I dipped my toe in the water.
And I picked up the book manuscript that has laid dormant for many months. For weeks I couldn’t even look at the pages. I had to hide them. Gradually I moved them to the top of the pile. Today I actually opened up the file and did a small paragraph of editing. Me. Who doubted at times my ability to ever work with words and paragraphs again. And ‘whispering’ it didn’t even seem too bad as I read and edited.
I’m giving myself a little pat on the back. I don’t think I’ve ever done that either. I think I might be ever so slightly proud of myself for battling on. I can see hope. And I can see the tiniest glimpse of a future.