Last Sunday, my therapist asked, “What if you binge to accept yourself? What if it’s your way to allow yourself to be imperfect?” In the past, I considered it to be punishment, but it makes sense that I would do something like that over and over. I’m alone, free to do as I please, and that’s what I did to feel okay about myself, even if I knew it wasn’t okay. When I told her I felt bad about it, she then asked, “How were you supposed to know? You were given the tools at a young age, and they worked well for you for so long, but now you’re hurting. How were you supposed to know when it felt right at the time?”
Oh, we found an apartment. It’s a lot further out, but it’s near the MAX and as long as we’re near the MAX, I’m fine. I’m overwhelmed right now, and I don’t know how to communicate with Wes that I need him to help more. He’s doing everything he can, but he hasn’t moved much in his life and since I’ve done it so many times, it’s natural that I’m doing most of it.