This time, I'm fighting.
I refuse to sink silently beneath the waves. I refuse to submit. I reject my illness. I reject the depraved passion that leaves me shaking and gagging after a bowl of soup.
This time, I'm strong.
I refuse to keep secrets. I refuse to deny myself support out of fear and shame. I reject dishonesty. I reject the part of myself that whispers hatred in my ear, twisting my insecurities into a rope that keeps me bound in regret.
This time, I'm different.
The illness is the same, but I've changed. In twelve years, I've grown. More than half my life has passed since toxic thought first infected me. More than half my life has been spent withering in service to self-destruction. I know better.
I'm recovering.