Yesterday I was going through some random stacks of paper that accumulate and grow in various corners of my flat. I have no particular interest in tidying and it shows. I found a bit of paper I had written on, about hope. I remember going to a peer support group towards the end of last year. Actually this may have been one of the first times I attended one as a sufferer. The group leader asked us to write about hope. These, according to the piece of paper, were my thoughts on the subject:
Hope is the only thing that keeps me alive. If I didn’t have hope of things moving forward, I wouldn’t have the energy to exist, because existing demands so much strength and often I almost feel I don’t have enough. Because I often feel bad, I try to think of moments, when some lightbulb moment or change has occurred in me, because they are a manifestation of hope. This year I have almost died, but I have moved forward a lot in accepting my own situation. I hope that accepting that I am very ill, is the key to that I could someday still live an okay life where every day wouldn’t be a huge undertaking.
Let me tell you readers how amazing it is to read words that are becoming reality (although my life without ED symptoms is way better than ‘okay’). At the time I thought my ED wasn’t my big problem but rather a way to deal with my huge problem, BPD, so it is interesting to read the section ‘I feel I don’t have enough energy’…I am telling myself that I need energy. It’s like I am leaving these signs everywhere, for myself and others, but perhaps mostly for myself. I think I was able to pull myself out of my illness in February because of all these little bits of evidence I kept leaving and all the poems I wrote about it. Here’s a (poorly translated) poem I wrote in September when I was very ill. I think it is remarkable how exactly I wrote about the nature of the illness before realizing the nature of the illness:
I want to perform a slow death, or of course I don’t want to. But I do, and I suffer and suffer and suffer until I no longer have the strength to suffer. I am cunning to myself, various methods of torture I will dress up in costumes, so they wouldn’t look like themselves. Once, somebody had written me into a poem. When I heard it I bled heavily, then I escaped hurriedly. So as not to challenge myself, to break out of the poem. To earn my existence, which is a terrible disease, a terminal one.
It sounds a bit better in Finnish (a very poetic language), but you get the point. I recommend everyone to write their future true if writing is at all your jam. It saved me in a very difficult situation, and it articulated to me my illness, my hope and my goals for the future, which are now slowly becoming a reality.