I handwrote a letter today. It was burned into ash, and will never meet another pair of eyes.
The words were in my head for a few years. Mostly formless. Only in the last twelve months did I even begin to believe they were worth legitimising.
It took a lot of external pushes, often accidental ones. I would see another depiction of me, in another lifeform or entity or piece of media, and see myself as I feared I might.
A friend talked to me recently about allostatic load, the concept of repeated wear and tear on the mind and body causing it to fall apart. Initially we thought it related to rocks and I figured it was a very cool metaphor. I loved the thought of a rock still cracking despite the environment around it reducing its pressure and weight, likening that to the experience of having to fall down and become worse before we could get better. Unfortunately I could not find any rocks that behave like this, and allostasis is entirely a physiological thing. Still cool though.
I had seen myself as I had most feared, and knew it was part of me. I felt the thoughts in my mind, and knew they had been restless with nowhere to go for so long. In my case, I wrote them down, forcing myself to believe every word of it. In better circumstances, you may benefit from a different approach.
I may write them down again, with better phrasing, better examples of what I experienced, or better knowledge going into it. But it doesn't feel as necessary as the first time.
Our thoughts are very real. They are worth doing something about. Put them on a sheet of paper, then send it, burn it, or frame it on the wall. Say them to someone who matters. Type them into a letter, or make them into an art piece. But never in your life should you deserve to let them feed on you.
And, just as importantly, never again.