I'm finally aware of when I engage in self-destructive behavior. After years of therapy, I can feel it coming on in times of stress. This tingly anticipation of the oncoming adrenaline spike. One I'll inevitably chase until my muscles cry "No more!"
My breathing shallows. I can feel my heartbeat become more pronounced in my fingers and ears. And the sounds of the world around me become muted. There becomes nothing around me. There's only whatever machine I've chosen to satiate the behavior. I don't not want to let loose. I don't not want to risk everything.
And while I've done a lot of good work in therapy, working to overcome the need of this feeling to cope with life's stresses, I also know that sometimes, every so often, there's no denying the breathless primal desire that's been ingrained in me for decades. There's no denying the need to take the sort of risks that quell the rampant stressful thoughts I can't—in that moment—overcome with positive reinforcement.
Risk assessment goes out the window; there's only the moment I'm living in. Thus was the case as I set off into the woods with Ski-Doo, where prior to embarking on our ride, the safety of my world shattered. And while I attempted to cope with the mantras and mechanisms I've learned in therapy, things designed to forsake my need for self-destruction, all my brain could think was "Send it."
It was exactly what I needed.
