A few years back, I forgot my dad's birthday. My dad, you might recall, has been dead for a little over nine years. It's not as though I left him waiting for a phone call that I forgot to make - depending on your beliefs of the afterlife, he may or may not even know I forgot. And as it is, I remembered that it was coming up in the days leading up to it, and I realized that I'd forgotten the very day after it. It just happened that I didn't think of it on the day itself. Yet none of that made me feel less guilty or upset when I realized that the day had passed without my giving it a second thought.
That's how I felt last night when I remembered my two major November anniversaries: my last cut, and my trip to the psych unit. Such important days to me, and yet, I didn't even notice them. J. pointed out that this is probably a good thing, showing that I've grown and moved on to other, more positive things in my life. Deep down, I know he's right, but I still feel like I've betrayed myself somehow, like not pausing to note the progress somehow negates it. Of course, we all know that's ridiculous, and I remind myself that I'm making progress every day, whether I explicitly note it or not. I suppose ideally that's how healing works: eventually, the scars fade, both mentally and physically.
So there you go - I've successfully stayed on the "No Cutting" bandwagon for two years and six days. Today may not be the actual anniversary, but I'm just as proud of myself today as I would have been on Friday.