Photo credit: http://www.terrytheweaver.com/
“We have all a better guide in ourselves, if we would attend to it,
than any other person can be.” ̴ Jane Austen
When I first lived overseas, I had many dreams though I would have had a hard time to articulate them one by one if anyone happened to ask. However, I never imagined twenty years to look back upon so much discord, drama, fear and coercion [how sad]. That’s what has made recovery challenging. The worst part is I blocked out the pain during those years rather than allowing myself to grieve.
[I’m typing this out as DD is in the bedroom sleeping] Anyway, I have been making progress and as a result have been feeling stronger. Today DD and I went biking at the metropolitan park. We’ve gone a few times before, but today I can say I enjoyed it. It’s not that the other outings were horrible or anything, but when you’re under the effects of despair and anxiety the vitality is missing. When you’re down, each event seems to be a test of endurance. You push yourself, so instead of building memories, you’re on survival mode. It could be sunny, but its default gray inside. It’s an awful way to live, because life already feels foreshortened as it is.
I confess my motivation for going biking [in prior occasions] was based on getting my daughter out of the house, so she wouldn’t be bored -- so I wouldn’t feel guilt-ridden -- yet secretly I couldn’t wait for the ordeal to be over even before it started. Each part of it was equivalent to climbing a mountain while loathing every step. Does that make sense? It’s good to be experiencing recovery.