It has been 744 days since I last self-injured. I’ve been feeling really empowered lately, and even though it has been over two years now, I think part of that feeling of empowerment has come from acknowledging once again that last time really was the last time. Its strange now to think that self-injury was ever a part of my life, but I know all too well that the slope is slippery.
Last month, I began a dialogue with a beautiful friend who frequently writes about self-worth, the battle for joy, and overcoming the lies that we’ve been told. Some of them are so painfully subtle that we don’t even realize what we’re buying into when we choose to conform to them. She calls herself a recovering fundamentalist. And while we don’t agree on everything, I find myself walking towards recovery, too. Walking towards demanding better for myself, and of myself.
I used to believe that my worth hung on what I did, rather than who I am. At times, it was communicated to me very directly. The lies run rampant, even in my own family. But they stop with me. I refuse to reinforce any opinion that devalues another human being, regardless of whether or not I personally agree with their choices or beliefs.
Because I know what kind of pain comes from allowing others to determine your worth. And the last time was the last time.
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