I have to accept that this isn't over; it's never over. This remains with me for as long as I live, because disturbingly, it is a part of me just as is any other part. I can silence it and tolerate it, but I cannot dispose of it. There is no doctor that can remove a shimmy-ing, slimy little parasite from my brain and toss it in the trash. I could only be so lucky.
I have taken care of this myself and can continue to do so if I keep fighting. I'm never going to stop fighting. It's just frustrating that I have to at all. Why was this lovely little gift bestowed upon me? I don't understand what I could've done to deserve this.
I just want the voice in my head to stop. I want to cease feeling like an obese killer whale every waking moment of my day. I want to accept that I can't go back, not now, not ever. A week marks six months. I think that's why this is so terrifying. This is proof that I'm actually better. That I'm actually doing it. That I'm succeeding. Scary fucking shit, man.
I thought I would die. I hoped I would.
I refused to believe I'd get better, even if I did live.
I lived, and I got better.
I disproved myself twice. I can do it again.
I can stay better. I can be better. I can just, essentially, be. I have nothing to prove to anyone but myself. No one else really matters if I can't take care of myself and I know this.
I just want to be comfortable in my skin. Not crawling out of it anymore.