My therapist said I’m currently the strongest she’s ever seen me. I like that she said “strong,” rather than “happy” or “normal,” because that really is the goal. I still feel plenty of anxiety, but for possibly the first time in my life, I have some confidence in my ability to handle it.
This strength feels like a kind of structure in my chest, around my heart. It’s not the heavy stone that sinks when I’m sad; it’s something tough but flexible, a carefully designed alloy. I’ve fought hard to built it. It’s taken a long time. And I’m worried about losing it.
My life is pretty small right now. I go to classes and hang out with my cats. The thing about finally being a healthy adult, or something close to it, is that I have no idea what my new limits are. If I take on too much, what if the awful fear comes back, or the hopelessness, or the constant, hateful voice in the back of my mind?
For now I’m just trying to enjoy it. We’ll see what happens.