I. Am. Imperfect.

I was an imperfect being long before this new reality reared its head two months ago. Granted, we’ve come to the unscientific conclusion that most of those imperfections were related to my illness, but still – I’m a 6’1″ walking bag of imperfection.  Given, right?  We are here in a fallen state, because we chose  it.  I am struggling with the concept that I chose to come here and accept this, but at it’s root I think I believe it.

I’ve been listening to lots of music the last few days as I’ve been out working on the front yard projects … music makes everything better, but can bring about a melancholy as well.  It’s hard to know where that line is, between “Oh, this helps,” and “meh, let’s put something else on.”  It can literally be from song to song in an album.

Things have felt off for the last few days, like I’m starting to go down into a spiral mode again … I don’t honestly believe that things will ever get as low as they were before I went into the facility though.  I’ve got too much of a support system now, and too much of a group of tools in front of me to let that happen.  It’s a small football to spike, but I will spike it:  I have not taken a klonipin (the severe anxiety pill) in more than two weeks.  Maybe I am regaining control off that aspect of my life.  Maybe.

Still, I just don’t feel like I did the days immediately after I got out.  I was ninety miles high, and felt like a million dollars.  Now – 12 days later, I feel like I’ve lost some of that.  It’s hard to define what I’ve lost – because I can’t define fully what I had, but it feels like it’s gone now.

I am imperfect.  Maybe it’s that I’m now back to the place where everyone is and I was before I went in:  searching daily for that perfection.  I’m the kind of person though that hates not being able to at least know what I’m doing.

This feeling around in the dark is so hard.  The best example I can put out there is that the illness has put me in a dark room and given me an unlimited book of matches to get around and function with.  I don’t get candles either.  I am tired of not knowing how I feel and when I’ll feel the way that I’ll feel.  It’s hard.  I hate it.


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