I have learnt that when I’m buzzing with instructions of intense self-sabotage, if I ignore and refuse to act out the bad behaviours that my brain and body tell me to engage in, the destructive need remains inside of me, buries itself deep and festers, then emerges later in ways far worse than the original act (that was bad in the first place).
Initially I decided I would humbly accept a few days, a long weekend, to get “it” “out of my system” whatever it was (grief, rage, destruction, stupidity, recklessness). I would allow myself that short time to totally spiral, to reach rock bottom, to be my very worst, in order to properly begin rehabilitation and the hard work that comes with rebuilding oneself from scratch on the Monday after my total undoing.
It turned out that 4 days did not provide enough time to get all of the devastation out of me. The Monday dubbed The Start of The Rest of My Life arrived and I had barely gotten started on purging myself of all the badness I needed to pander to. It occurred to me: I neeeded more time.
The gift of another day suddenly became welcome; anticipated; vital. I needed more time to allow myself to utterly fall apart in order to properly put myself back together again. So I accepted a gift I never thought I would want, let alone need. I unwrapped it on September 1st and, instead of trying to arrange its disposal, I said “thank you” and meant it. 30 days, an entire month, sat in my lap. I gave myself September.