I'm doing better. Functioning. Living. Experiencing things instead of numbing my way through them. Making healthier choices. Trying to avoid the things that offer temporary respite but are inevitably damaging long-term.
I slip. I falter. But mostly, I'm trying to do what's right. What society expects of me.
Real progress, genuinely.
Except none of it has fixed anything fundamental.
At work, there's this pervasive that'll do attitude. No one considers how things will land. No one thinks about whether something's actually good, just whether it's done. Tick the box, move on. That's enough.
And I'm still exhausting myself caring about outcomes. Thinking about who things are for, how they'll be received, whether they're helpful or just technically complete. It hasn't got better. I'm just better at managing the exhaustion.
I'm constantly monitoring. Looking for clues. Watching for signs of safety, of acceptance. Trying to figure out where I can exist without pretending, without masking. Looking for reassurance that I'm not about to become forgotten again.
It's exhausting. The vigilance. The constant analysis of tone, body language, response times, what's being said and what's being left unsaid. Searching for evidence that someone genuinely cares, or if I'm just projecting meaning onto politeness.
And when someone doesn't respond to a message — when they're busy or distracted or just living their life — the monitoring intensifies. My mouth goes dry. My stomach drops.
It's not just that one non-response. It's every time. My parents. Relationships that ended. Friendships that dissolved. Every time it's felt like I cared more than they did.
One thing carries the weight of everything that came before.
My body doesn't distinguish between this person is genuinely busy and you don't matter to anyone and you never have. The reaction isn't proportionate to what's actually happening. It's compounded. Layered. And I know this. I can see the pattern. But understanding doesn't stop it.
I tried being present. Focusing on what's real — what's happening right now — instead of dragging in the past or future-tripping on things that haven't happened yet. Supposed to help, right?
Except I can't stay present when my brain insists every moment is identical to every previous version of it. Can't focus on now when now feels exactly like then.
I'm better at lots of things. Better at functioning, at not falling apart, at doing my job, at attempting to navigate relationships without immediately sabotaging them. Better at living instead of just surviving.
But the foundational stuff? The core wound?
Unchanged.
The belief that I don't matter. The way rejection compounds. The constant monitoring for signs I'm about to be relegated to peripheral again. That's exactly as broken as it always was.
And sometimes — when everything compounds, when the weight of all those layered moments becomes unbearable — I still need the temporary escape. The brief respite from being constantly vigilant. It's not constant like it used to be. Less frequent, less destructive. But when it gets too much, when I can't hold it all anymore, the release feels urgent. Necessary.
Which I suppose is also progress. But it's still there. The need to not be here sometimes.
So I'm left with this: I can get better at doing life whilst remaining fundamentally broken.
Make progress in how I operate whilst the core wound stays exactly as damaged as it always was. No arrival. No point where doing better actually fixes what's wrong. No finish line where the foundational belief changes or rejection stops compounding or I can exist without constant monitoring.
Just incremental improvement in how I function whilst the centre stays broken.
And the question I can't answer: if doing better doesn't heal the fundamental thing, what's the point of the effort?
What I can control: how I function, how I show up, how I do my job, how I treat others. What I can't control: the foundational wound, the way everything compounds, the constant vigilance, the moments when it becomes unbearable.
And knowing that doesn't help. Doing better at the things I can control hasn't touched the things I can't.
Less broken is better than more broken, I suppose. Even without a destination. Even if the core thing never heals. Even if all this progress just means I'm functional whilst remaining fundamentally damaged.
But some days it feels pointless. All this effort to be better when better doesn't mean fixed. When you can do everything right and still be exactly as broken as you started.
I keep going anyway. Not because I think there's a finish line waiting. Not because I believe the fundamental wound will heal if I just make enough progress.
But because the alternative — even though it works, even though the numbing offers real relief — is slow suicide. Trading immediate respite for long-term damage.
So it's just this. The ongoing reality of being better whilst remaining broken. Making progress that doesn't fix anything fundamental. Living instead of just surviving, even when the core wound stays exactly the same.
No arrival. No fixed. No point where doing better actually heals what's wrong.
Just incremental improvement around the edges of something that won't change.
And maybe — maybe — that has to be enough?