Three Months Later

My instinct is to apologize for having been away from my blog for so long, but with the things that I’ve been trying to handle, I think you all would understand.

First I got pneumonia — I think it was the fifth time I’ve had it in my life.  As a kid, I had a lot of respiratory problems and was at the doctor practically every week.  It isn’t any more fun now than it was back then.  At least back then I got coloring books and chocolate Frostys (or is it “frosties”? not sure how to pluralize “Frosty”).  Sometimes being an adult really sucks.

Then … I don’t want to talk about this a lot or go into details, so I’m going to bare bones it: I was raped.  I’ve been trying to just forget it, move on, push forward; whatever phrase you want to use.  I completely withdrew and have been spending a lot of time in bed cuddling with Sam and Lucy and my stuffed animals.  Mom let me get an alarm system so I’m feeling a little bit safer, but the PTSD is strong right now; a lot stronger than I or my coping mechanisms are.  But I’m trying my hardest to recover and that’s all I want to say about that.

I did take a few photos the other day, so I’m hoping to get those up and get back to posting regularly.  I do apologize for not being there for all of you.  I hope you can forgive me.

As long as I’m breathing, there’s hope.  Right?

♥ ♥

Hurt

I told a good friend of mine a couple days ago that I can feel the depressive vortex sucking me in.  And it is; I’m not even sure if I care enough to fight it.  It’s almost 6 am and I haven’t been to bed yet because I’ve been crying and can’t shut my brain off.  Even two Klonopin couldn’t take me down.  I might have to take a third if I want to get to sleep today … which I really shouldn’t do, because Mom will wake up and need my help.  She’s made small progress but is still in an intense amount of pain.

But so am I, the little girl inside me whispers.  I wish someone was helping me.  I hurt so much and I don’t know what to do.

God, I’m a selfish bitch.

I Shouldn’t

I know I shouldn’t be  ordering books that are pro-eating disorder, or looking at thinspiration sites, or going back through old journals to see what I wasn’t eating (or what I did eat and threw up).  I shouldn’t be drawing on myself with a red sharpie to show all the places I hate myself and wish I could just cut away.  I shouldn’t be listening to the voice in my head telling me I will never be good enough, and I shouldn’t be losing myself in my dark thoughts.

But tonight I am doing all of these things and I don’t feel like stopping.

• • • •

will·ful

[ˈwilfəl/]
adjective