Fucking jump.
I like to bitchcliff jump. Meaning that several times during the summer, I drive all the way out to my cliff jumping spot, climb to the top of the biggest rock, stare down at the water for 45 minutes, and retreat to the bitch rock. The bitch rock is a substantially smaller outcropping with a substantially smaller risk of imminent belly-flopping injury.
This year, though, I reeeeally want to jump off the hard-ass rock. Every time I think about it, I get this nice little adrenaline rush. Then I remember that I'm making plans for the near future and I get an even better rush because I'm going to fucking be around this summer to see these plans through. Holy fucking hell, people. This is so cool.
This time last month, the only reason I would have considered planning a jump would be to ensure that my head smashed into the side of the rock on my way down. THAT would have been the reason for any and all subsequent adrenaline rushes. Holy fucking hell, who does that.
To date, I have had only 2 panic attacks since Sunday. I used to get at least 2 panic attacks almost every fucking day. I haven't tried to hurt myself once. I've stopped starving myself and have been controlling something else instead: my music. I have felt something along the lines of happiness every day just because I'm alive. I'm making plans with every intention to see them fulfilled. This has got to be the greatest thing in the world.
Hang on,
Ness
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