I feel weird admitting this, even to the void of the internet, but fuck it. Lately, I've noticed the moment my brain starts to idle and spiral into that anxious, pointless bullshit, my hand has a mind of its own. It's not even a conscious decision; it's a reflex, a desperate grab for the one thing that can short-circuit the static. My private reset button. I'll work myself up, chasing that single, sharp moment of oblivion where all the noise in my head just fucking stops.
But then, the second it's over, the shame hits. It’s this cold, awkward wave that washes over me while I'm still catching my breath. I feel guilty, like I just did something dirty, even though I'm alone in my own damn room. I’d like to officially thank my blanket for its service; it’s the only witness to my little ritual and my subsequent self-loathing. I'm trying, really trying, to reframe this whole thing. To see it as self-care, a necessary release, instead of just another reason to beat myself up. It's a battle to keep it from becoming self-criticism. That’s the whole sordid confession.
But then, the second it's over, the shame hits. It’s this cold, awkward wave that washes over me while I'm still catching my breath. I feel guilty, like I just did something dirty, even though I'm alone in my own damn room. I’d like to officially thank my blanket for its service; it’s the only witness to my little ritual and my subsequent self-loathing. I'm trying, really trying, to reframe this whole thing. To see it as self-care, a necessary release, instead of just another reason to beat myself up. It's a battle to keep it from becoming self-criticism. That’s the whole sordid confession.
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Swipey
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