Midnight found me curled up on my bed, hugging a stuffed animal close to my chest. If you would've walked into my room, you would've heard muffled sobs as I squeezed the living daylights out of that poor purple unicorn.
I then set the stuffed animal aside and set my hands in my lap, my fingers so tightly clasped together that it hurt. Anything, anything, anything but self-harm. I continued to weep and breathe raggedly, then scraped the tip of a pen so hard across sheets of paper that I'm surprised I didn't break the pen.
But better to ruin the pen and paper than to ruin my unscarred-for-three-months skin.
Tears subside; urges wane. After awhile, I lay limply on my bed, sniffing here and there but not really crying anymore.
What could have possibly caused this barrage of emotions? Oh, nothing more than anxiety and depression and OCD. The reason why I was having a harder time than usual in coping with these familiar "friends" is because I have weakened in my stand against OCD. I've been challenged to engage in ERP (exposure and response prevention), which is pretty much a fancy way of purposefully putting myself in a situation where it'd be natural for me to practice OCD habits, then resisting those impulses.
Actually, I was a rather thick-headed young woman last week. I was supposed to engage in fifteen-minute ERP activities seven times last week and read a chapter in an OCD book. Truth is, I only did eight (or less) minutes of ERP total (that's 97 minutes less than my therapist told me to do), and I only read part of the chapter. What I did read, I intentionally blocked. Like I said, I was thick-headed.
Which, of course, led to lots of guilt and self-condemnation. Which led to depression. On top of all that, these past couple weeks, I've had this uncanny ability to expose myself to lots of people who've been throwing up. Add all those components, and you get the girl who was crying herself sick on the bed.
This is long, so I'll post this, then add another chapter.