It finally took a trip to the ER (helpful yet humiliating and repetitive) and seeing a psychiatrist - in person - to realize that my programming was not my fault, and how it was bestowed upon me so that I could survive. I've been ok, recovered once before for several years, where I went from surviving to thriving. I had safety, security (physical, emotional, financial), support and routine. 

Safety, security, support and routine. 

That's all I needed. That's what we all need to be ok. 

I feel so chastised when people just tell me I have to try harder, or this is what worked for them... every day is hard, and I've tried all the things. (I can't go for a bike ride when I'm basically Catatonic).  Most of the time I get told these kinds of things by people who had the kind of programming where they could grow and thrive without worry of their little feet stepping on broken glass because of the violence from the night before. Their words fall on deaf ears not because I don't want to try. I can't hear you because I know all of this already. But congratulations to you on being so good at life! 

It's not my fault I am this way. It's not my fault I relapsed. It's on me and me alone to recover. But I cannot recover in an environment that keeps me in survival mode. None of us can. But.... what does one do when there's no where else to go? 

I hold my way out in my hand.... I am so close to hitting this emergency stop button every minute that goes by.