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Essentially, to falsify the deeply ingrained hypothesis that my only value is in the feverish and unceasing application of my labour.

Today’s experience differed from the usual pattern in that I recognized the behaviour immediately following. That’s progress.

And it’s still fresh enough in mind that I can recall the qualia of the experience: typing extremely fast, tunnel vision;

a sense that I’m near the physical limits on my performance; razor focus on a long and swiftly shortening list of steps.

Maybe next time I can recognize it while it’s happening.

But even in the face of real, measurable progress, the whisper of doubt: I can’t do this. I will continue to disappoint myself. Give up.

But that’s just it. I don’t give up when I know I can do a thing, even if I know exactly how agonizing it will be. Giving up would be lying.

So in a strange way, I can’t feel optimism right now, *because* I know I’m going to continue recovering and survive just fine—

because the path to recovery involves going back the way I came, the long way, and it’s paved with broken glass.

(And in the meantime, pretty much everything makes me feel bad about myself, especially praise.)

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