I woke up yesterday morning, completely without warning, with a sense that a giant weight had been lifted off my shoulders. I felt lighter, more at peace. My anxiety was better than I can remember it being. I could speak without the echo of fear and doubt that accompanies most of my social interactions (in the manner of quick thoughts like “well, that was stupid” or “why did you say that?” or “oh, idiot, you’ve done it now” after practically everything I say to others), a feat achieved so rarely in the past that the difference was striking.
I performed a sort of inventory at one opportunity on some of the key points my therapist has been working on with me and found myself coming around to her way of thinking, some of what she and others have been telling me for years – that I’m allowed to have my own opinions and to express them, that other people’s emotions are not my problem, that I am a good person with good intentions and that should be enough for any reasonable person – and even though I can deal with unreasonable people don’t mean that I should or that I must. That I am more capable than I ever thought, that I am blossoming and growing into a great woman, that I have even more greatness inside of me and all the ability to bring it to the surface and be there not only for those I love but for myself. That I deserve to be happy. And truthfully, the number of people I’m on bad terms with is a very short list, and if they want to spend their life bitter and butt hurt without trying to learn and grow from the experience and become more than what they were and are, more (or less?) power to them. Not. My. Problem. Bitter and butt hurt isn’t my preferred scene.
How or why this happened now I do not know. But I do know that therapy is working, and I’m starting to view my personality disorder as less of a disability and more of a totally nifty feature that I can hack.