In Local Treatment: Step One

I've been working through the idea of therapy for over a year.  Not because I was opposed to going, quite contrary.  When I close my eyes and vision discussing the necessary with a person whose trust I've accepted, it calms me.  The way visiting a garden nursery calms my ocular soul.  In retrospect though, I was simply working through the act of saying help.  A long overdue recognition that no matter how many times my brain insisted it was my fault, it in fact, was not.  Feeling helpless, crying, shuttered in a corner.  Pacing alone, oblivious to my surroundings, wanting nothing more than to scream when I couldn't utter a peep.  Wondering why my life felt so much more together in high school, than with these extra years of experience.

But eventually, I understood that silly bird, it was never my fault - I simply didn't have the right tools within reach.  I've finally squashed any remaining ego that I could handle it all myself.

Step One: Make the call. {check}

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I originally started this entry January 1, 2015.  It was a coincidence and not because it was "New Year, New Me."  I loathe over simplified phrases meant to motivate the unmovable.  I opened it up the other day because even though I've taken a few steps towards progress, per usual offense found myself wanting to pry open old wounds.  Sliced, fileted reminders to display my moments of madness.  I ferociously consumed these jumbled thoughts & half sentences, despite knowing what little value they gave.  Yet the final, poisonous punch to the chest was reflecting upon all these scattered words I'd classified as defects.  The idea that I'd tack them so carelessly to a pole of negativity made me sad, albeit common.

Self perception is obstinately cruel.
I'm aware at just how little inner support I give myself.

Step One: Ready.