I carry the fire...

I've got bucketloads of blame stored in my attic. Most of it carries your name, but while I keep it neatly labeled I have no intention of creating a coastline of misery. Instead I hope to distill it into something more useful over time. So I got these buckets and barrels and sometimes I go up there for a bath. Because even attic space is limited. And because every barrel carries my name as well.

Just a few days ago I realized that there are seemingly no limits to the varieties of self-harm. And that self-harm had become one of my trademark strategies. Not that this general tendency comes as a genuine surprise really. But over the last few years I had tried so hard to eliminate all the little prompts and opportunities for hurting myself. I'd stopped cutting several years ago. I'd abandoned suicidal thoughts by and large. I had cut out all opportunities for substance abuse by quitting smoking and drinking. I thought I was in the green. In retrospect that seems obnoxiously naive.
I hadn't recovered. I neglected friends and would-be-lovers that were good for me and I prolonged stressful and hurtful situations usually resolving them in preemptively hurting myself. I shied away from establishing new relationships. And to top it all of, I managed to convince myself that I was getting better.
Truth is, that although I am now painfully aware of my inept symptom elimination, I have no idea how to even begin recovery. I will try to reestablish some of the friendships I put on hold. Why doesn't this life come with a manual?