For the first time since I can remember, and probably for the first time period, I seem to be in a committed relationship with life. No longer am I seduced enough by the idea of death that I fantasize at length about my own. And while it's true that I can still experience pain to a high degree, that a large part of it is brought about through my own doing, and that things escalated recently to the point of me breaking my no-cutting streak that had lasted almost a year, I never seem to start spiraling like I used to. I don't veer back and forth so hard between elation and despair - any time that I come close, I'm probably on my period. And after one of those "depressive blackouts", I pick myself up and keep on truckin'. I never intend to end it again. Not while he's around. I'm not so safe in my own skin that I could honestly say not at all, never, no matter what, but for now this improvement is good enough.
Committing to helping myself really helps. I'm still frustrated beyond belief with myself, with my procrastinating tendencies and lack of motivation, blah blah blah, misanthropy and misinterpretation, persistent anxiety, give me a downer already. I am either finally growing up some more, or dissociating into another mental episode of the breaking-down sort, but either way things seem a little more trivial than usual. If I keep a routine up, this pattern persists, and at an even keel I rest. There are still days when I fall apart but usually it's tied with not doing shit. There are still days when it hits me out of nowhere and cuts me to the quick. But I can't deny that even though it's gotten a little worse, things are still better than they've ever been.
Just gotta keep on truckin'.