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Like A Nightmare

Cracking under the pressure
Rising up and getting underneath your skin
Feel it turn into leather
Watch it peeling off the broken bones of a discount soul forever
I’ll always be the one to watch you
fall apart then try to keep it together
At the bottom in the endless dark of an empty heart

Giving into the pleasure
Like a sliver digging underneath my skin
I’m feeling better than ever
Drag myself across a concrete floor through an open door forever
You’ll always be the one to make me fall apart
Gotta keep it together
At the bottom of the endless dark feel the fire start

I take it to the edge
I do it till it bleeds
I push it to the limit
I ain’t ever gonna sleep
I’m dying for a fight
I’m living on the run
Cause it’s hard to see the light down the barrel of a gun
I take it like a drug to try to kill the pain
Addicted to the damage I ain’t never gonna change
Cause what I want is haunting me
Like a nightmare

~Deadset Society

In many ways, being broken down presents an opportunity. You’re given a chance to take inventory, piece by piece, as you sort through yourself. You can now really examine all of your own parts, and reflect on how or why they’d gotten there in the first place. Like cleaning out an overflowing closet. Item by item, you remember when and where you got each one. You consider whether they’re still worth the space they require. Do you even like it, now? You find things you’d completely forgotten about. A twenty dollar bill, inside a coat pocket. An old receipt. Things that feel like you’re rediscovering hidden treasures. Things you no longer want or need, and plenty junk. Worn out, stained, broken, and expired items you’ll toss in the trash. Things you’ll recycle, or donate. What you’ll keep, and what you won’t. It takes time and effort, but eventually you’re rewarded with a tidy, usable, freshly clean and organized space. It feels pretty great, once you’re able to enjoy the results of your labor. This is just what I’ve been working towards, within myself.

It’s not always obvious, what I’ll find, or how it got there. There are memories attached to all of it. Some things are hard to let go of, even when that’s what I ultimately want. For awhile, I just couldn’t bring myself to begin this process. Once I was ready, just like reorganizing a messy closet, the mess spilled out into previously uncluttered places. There’s a period of time, when cleaning actually looks more like making a mess, than it does, well, cleaning. To those on the outside, it appears as if you’re just redundantly shuffling around your crap. Trust the process. It takes time. Only you can choose what’s important, to you. What’s worth hanging onto, and what isn’t. We’ve all got a “junk drawer”, somewhere in our homes. Except, it’s not really all just “junk”. You keep things you’re not quite sure whether you might one day reach for. You don’t need it, today, but you’re not certain about tomorrow. There just may come a day you’ll be glad you hung onto something you’ve kept in there. So, ya wind up with a drawer full of different sizes and shapes of screws and nails, small tools, napkins, straws, batteries. I think everybody’s entitled to a little bit of space, designated for the random things we’re not willing to throw away. Space for the clutter and messiness to be placed. Out of sight, but not gone. Not right now, anyhow. We don’t have to display it prominently. It’s no one else’s business.

In this process of reorganization and restructuring, I’m able to rebuild myself, my life, into something I hope will be less chaotic. I’ve got a drawer, a basket, or a bin, in practically every room. Spots to store all the stuff I’m not ready to part with, or not ready to sort through. That’s okay. Room by room, I’m tidying up. I’m creating spaces that are much more inviting. I move some furniture around, hang some new photos, sweep, vacuum, dust, and mop. I’ve no guarantees that my entire house will be beautifully and perfectly clean and decorated. It’s a big house. Life has a way of bringing home clutter, every single day. Progress has been made, though. Tangible, meaningful improvements. On days when I decide to tackle another closet or cupboard, things look and feel messy, for awhile. Always, with a little work, time, and patience, comes the reward of another satisfyingly renewed and comfortable space, behind another door I’m no longer embarrassed or afraid to allow anyone to open. Including myself. This is my quiet transition. The one I’m making, within myself. I’m proud of it. I’m proud of myself. I’m so grateful to have a husband, family, and friends, who share my excitement. Who also love when I’m able to show them inside each “room, closet, cupboard, and drawer” that I’ve made viable and accessible, once again.

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Cracks in My Calm

I smile like it’s fine
Keep it light for the crowd
But there’s a riot underneath
Begging me to get loud

You want polite, you got it
You want peace, I bought it
With years of my voice buried in my chest
Now there’s nothing left
But a bomb begging for the test

You don’t see the cracks in my calm
The grin I wear right before I’m gone
That twitch in my jaw when I’m holding my breath
Like I’m trying to bury what’s begging for death
I’m a breakdown looking composed
A loaded truth that nobody knows

Don’t trust the steel, I’m the calm before
The war inside that you can’t ignore
They say I’m strong because I don’t show the break
But I’m strong ’cause I ain’t snapped, not yet, for my sake
If I let one scream out the rest will follow
And there won’t be nothing left by tomorrow

~War Torn

I’ve got a fairly long list of letters yet to be written. Letters meant for family and friends, past and present. People I need to share much more than I have with. There’s a few letters, for a few people, who most likely won’t ever read them. Because I’ve no real intention of mailing them. Those letters are for me. A way to speak my peace. To pour my heart out to those who only ever existed, as I knew them, in my imagination. What I wholeheartedly believed was reality has been shattered into unrecognizable pieces, incapable of being resurrected or restored. There are people I’d genuinely opened myself up to, along with all that mattered to me. People who ultimately, it turns out, didn’t value any of it the way I had. People who pretended to be someone they just aren’t. People I trusted, while choosing to ignore evidence that hinted at all the reasons I shouldn’t have. Hell, sometimes the evidence screamed at me, and still I remained blind and deaf to it. Since the biggest upset of my life (to date), I’ve held all my “cards” up even more closely to my chest. It hurts too much, all the betrayal. I’ve stayed guarded from everyone but my husband. Even then, I don’t always go to him with my worries, my anger, pain. Not every time, and not all of it. Everyone I know has sort of a “ceiling” to if, what, and how much I share. A limit on how close I’ll allow them to get. I reckon my fear of rejection has become one of my tallest hurdles. Nothing hurts more than being told I don’t matter, by those I love and care about. Having someone I’d regarded so close to me, accept any false narratives about me. Discovering just how quickly and easily lies became the only truth they believed, in spite of every reason I’d expected would prove otherwise. It’s hard enough, when someone I’ve welcomed into my life is capable of telling vicious lies. I think it’s an even deeper wound though, when anyone I’ve trusted hears a lie, and doesn’t even question it. Won’t give me a benefit of doubt, but instead decides I’m no longer worthy, and wants to punish me for being the deceitful villain that someone else’s story claims me to be. Nothing they themselves had known to be true, prior to the lies, matters at all. No amount of testimony or evidence makes a difference. Even when opinions start to sway, by that point it’s too late. My trust’s broken. Your verdict’s pointless. What reason is there to attempt to build bridges back to somebody I can’t imagine I’ll be able to rely on, again? I can’t share my life with someone who’s shown me how willing they are to discard it like trash, the moment they decide to trade me for something I couldn’t or wouldn’t give them.

This post isn’t about the past. Not that part, anyway. I say all this to help explain my current struggle. My inability to find faith in others, that I’ll be trusted, believed, accepted, loved. To give my own perspectives, as well as provide insight into how and why, I’d have to open myself up to the possibility of being rejected. I just haven’t had the courage to do that, yet. I don’t mean here, in my blog. I’m referring to the real and tangible parts and pieces I’ve wished to sort through, outside of myself. It’s felt as if I’ve been hanging on by a tiny thread, and if someone pulls it, I’m afraid I’ll never make it back upright again.

I recently talked with my doctor, about weaning off my antidepressant medicine. I don’t want to be on it forever, and I already hate that without taking it every single night, I can’t sleep. I don’t want to be dependent on any substance or medication, even if it’s not necessarily addictive. My doctor assured me, I’m on the lowest dose of my antidepressant, and he’s never had any patients struggle to get off it. While I really do feel much more competent and capable of doing life without it, I’m not so confident in my ability to handle getting hit by another one of life’s significant blows. Not yet. My recovery feels pretty fragile, and I absolutely cannot let my mind go back to the dark and scary places I’ve come out of. I spent hours sat on the floor of our shower, hugging my legs to my chest, sobbing and pleading with God. I remember once, Adam sat beside me. His arms wrapped around me, and the tears also streaming down his own face. The only words I was able to form were, I don’t see it, anymore. I can’t find it. It’s gone. I didn’t see a way out of the awful place I was trapped inside. I couldn’t find an ounce of hope to hang onto. My past didn’t seem to belong to me, anymore. The present was unbearable, and as far as I could tell, there was no meaningful future. I was without purpose. I was useless. Not just that, I was a monster. I couldn’t protect my family. No rescue would come. All that was left, was the pain and misery I carried and brought onto everyone I touched. I didn’t even trust the person reflected back to me, in the mirror. I couldn’t tell which thoughts and emotions were real. I wasn’t sure whether my memories, intentions, or the love I’d had for those I believed I did, were actually true. I questioned my own motives in everything, with everyone. It was impossible for me to decipher facts from fiction, even and especially when it came to who I was. I wondered, am I who they said I was? Could it be, I’m just not a good person, and I hadn’t seen how bad I’ve been? Am I a heartless, selfish, hateful person? Was I trying to accomplish opposite objectives, to those I’d told myself were the intended purpose for my thoughts, words, and actions? Did I do despicable things, but somehow convinced myself I hadn’t? Am I crazy? Am I terrible? Is this my fault? Is my family in more danger, with me remaining a part of it? Maybe the solution to saving them, is by ending my life? Could things get better, for my family, or would I only manage to make things even worse? I can’t do anything right. If I pull the trigger, steer my car into this ravine, or take all these pills, will that be just another selfish piece of shit move? Maybe they’re supposed to despise me. If it meant an opportunity to give my family a better life, I’d gladly sacrifice my own. If I could spare my husband, my babies, everyone who’s been here trying to save me, from experiencing further heartbreak, I’d accept all the blame. I’d take the hate, the shame, the wrath.

I was quickly losing my grasp on reality. Spiraling through despair, down an endless portal to hell. I could conceive of no other possibilities, aside from descending deeper into that dark place. I grew increasingly uncomfortable in my own skin. I was desperate to escape. Part of me wanted to run. To get away from the tormented existence I saw no hope of getting out of. Whatever that meant. Whether it was getting in my car, and driving far far away. Saying goodbye to the life I’d worked so hard to build, and finding somewhere, anywhere else, to hide out in. Or, whether it meant giving into those incessant urges to permanently end my life. I just so badly wanted respite. This is the place I absolutely cannot go back to. I’m afraid, next time, I won’t make it out alive.

I’m not there, anymore. Thank God. I’m also uncertain about where exactly it is I’d like to be. I’m not sure what my goals or expectations could, or should, look like. I haven’t quite figured out what it is that I’d like to achieve. Where will I go, from here? What even would be realistic hopes and dreams? I spent such a significant part of my life working to get to a place that no longer exists. So, where will I go, now? How will I get there? Who’ll come with me? How far will I be allowed to get, before the wrong person takes notice? When it’s discovered, that I’m moving towards something, will that mark on my back another target? I don’t know that I’d be able to mend any additional wounds, inflicted upon myself or those around me. Not yet. Sometimes, I think it’s safer to just stay put. To let others remain arrogant and satisfied. Assured there’d be no need to pay any attention, so long as they think I’m staying down. I’m not. I’m definitely not down. I just worry about making too much noise, if I climb too high, and draw attention to myself or my family. I want to be left the fuck alone. On the other hand, I don’t want to be ignored, or hated. It really depends on who’s in the audience, I suppose.

I know who I am. I know who I was before, too. I know who I want to be, and who I’ve always strived to be. I’m contemplating the future. Which is a giant leap forward. I’ve come from a hopeless place, where a future wasn’t even an option. At least, not one I had a say in. I’ve gotten to wherever this is. Maybe it’s some kind of purgatory? At least it ain’t hell. Time isn’t a luxury afforded to any of us for long, so I’d prefer not to waste it on worry and doubt over things beyond my control. However, for the moment, I’m content. Mostly content. I’m comfortable enough to take solitude here, and enjoy the beautiful sights all around me. I’ve got something to cling to. Something to protect. Something worth fighting for. I’m taking my time, before I let most people into this place, but I do long for the company of others. I’d like to open up. There’s so much I want to say, to so many. If only I could trust that I’d be listened to, heard, and not dismissed. That I can tear down some layers of this wall I’ve had no choice but to surround myself with. Brick by brick, without them becoming the very weapons someone else will throw right back into the place I’ve been sheltering inside. I want to be understood, and accepted. I’d like to share who I really am, behind and underneath it all. One day, I will. I’m getting stronger, everyday. It’s not always an easy distinction, between building resilience and putting up more walls. I’m trying to fortify myself, but also to avoid growing “harder”. I don’t want to go to any wars. I believe in the philosophy of peace through strength. Don’t test me, though. I’m not going to keep hidden. My lips are not sealed for your protection. It’s for mine. I won’t sell my soul, abandoning my principles to fight battles which serve no one. I won’t lie, either. I’ll tell as much truth as necessary, to those with whom it’s appropriate to do so. Not on a whim, and not simply to protect some idealistic image of myself. That’s a pointless endeavor. Those who stand beside me, don’t demand these things from me. That’s precisely why they’re the ones who deserve to know. Why those are the people I’m considering, when I speak of removing the barriers that prevent us from drawing closer. None of this is for or about the ones who aren’t around me. It’s about those who’ve stayed. Who believed in me, and who’ve supported me through this hell. Finally, it’s about me. I don’t give a solitary fuck, if that makes me appear selfish. I’m entitled to care about me, too. If anyone’s upset about the light shining on and around me, perhaps it’s time to grab your own shovel, and begin the work to dig yourself out from the hole you’ve created. Find your own sunshine. You can’t have mine.

American Nights

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Pray the morning don’t come
These colors don’t run
Stay up and stay young

American nights

~Morgan Wallen

Yesterday was so much fun! Mikayla always “crashes”, when she comes back home. She didn’t get up, until after noon. She’s been working so hard, and I’m extremely proud of her. I’m proud of all my girls! Brooklyn decided to pursue her associates degree, and has been taking classes during the days, while also working a full time job, overnights. She’s done an impressive job, already saving up a good amount of money for herself, too. I still sometimes just marvel at how much all my girls have grown, but especially my Brooklyn. Brooklyn was born, more than two months premature. She was diagnosed with autism and sensory processing disorder, right after her third birthday. She didn’t start speaking, until nearly a year later. She can be very literal and blunt, in her thinking and her words. It isn’t always easy for her to recognize the subtle cues in how others say things, their facial expressions, things like that. She sometimes misunderstands, after mistaking someone’s intentional sarcasm for genuine emotion. On the other hand, she’s also super funny! She makes me laugh, a lot. We tease that she’s got the same personality as her cat. Whenever a stranger comes around, she disappears. Once she gets comfortable, though, she will open up. She’s a great judge of character, too. She seems to quickly recognize and discern, who can and cannot be trusted. She, herself, is sincere to the point of often being “brutally honest”. My sister’s always said, if she wants to feel good about herself, she’ll ask Mikayla’s opinions. If she wants the truth, she’ll ask Brooklyn. I admire the way Brooklyn never compromises her true feelings or beliefs, for anything or anyone else. She had to learn how to be a little bit more delicate, when sharing her opinions with others, but she’ll always tell you the truth if you ask her for it. During her Senior year of high school, and while I was working outside the home and our family were all going through the toughest season of our lives, she grew into this beautiful and brave young woman. I almost missed the subtle changes in her, for awhile. As that year progressed, it occurred to me just how strong and helpful she’d been. She took on almost all of the daily household chores. She became Mj’s second mama, and really paid close attention to Mj’s struggling. She spent hours listening and talking, with her. She did her best to make life fun, for all of us. In those firsts, like the first holidays without some of the people we wouldn’t celebrate with, she was goofy and wanted to cheer up our heavy hearts. She kept up her grades, in school. Never had missing or incomplete work. As much as I truly appreciate all she did for everyone, including me, I also felt tremendous guilt. This never should have been her burden to carry. Her last year to be a “kid”, should have been filled with fun and friends. Not dirty dishes, laundry, making sure her little sister brushed her teeth before school, and looking after her mama. I should’ve been much more present with her, and aware. I look back, and see just how selfish I’d been. Running from the turmoil, trying to avoid having to look at the damage done to our family. To my babies. When she had to have her knee surgery, I’d already begun to recognize these things I hadn’t been, but so wanted to do again, with and for my babies. Her health challenge was just the final push, that convinced me what and where I needed to do and be. I was not going to let her go through that, without being right beside her. I can’t ever “make up’ for the time I missed, with my girls, but I did do my darndest to be fully present, from then on. I’m still determined to be a better mama. To give them what they need and deserve. Now, Brooklyn is no longer a child, and is carving her own path in life. Although I do miss the hell out of her, I’m also hella proud to of her. I’m hella proud of all of them! Mikayla’s wicked smart. Like, well beyond my own capabilities. She’s doing these absolutely incredible things. Achieving her goals and dreams, like the badass she is. She’s an actual freaking rocket scientist, and she’s proving to be a damn good one at that. Brooklyn’s continuing to challenge herself, leaving her comfort zone so that she can learn and grow, and build her very own beautiful life. Mj’s grown more than hips and boobs, too. She’s maturing, quickly. I find myself having deep conversations with her. Real, grown up type of talks, about big topics. She’s doing color guard, taking after her big sister, Mikayla. She’s got a real good group of friends. She’s become awfully “boy crazy” recently, as well, which her daddy claims is making his beard turn gray. Haha! Mj is a teenage girl. A young lady, who’s figuring out what and who she wants to be. My goal is to support and encourage my girls. To guide them, as best I can, and to be a mama who they’ll always want to include, as they navigate along their own journeys.

We celebrated the Fourth of July, swimming, talking, giggling, baking, eating, and shooting fireworks. It only rained briefly, shortly after we got started with our fireworks. We sat and waited for the rain to pass, and then were able to get right back to it. Adam and the girls had a blast. I had the best Fourth of July, in years. Maybe, the best one ever, actually. I loved seeing my carefree, smiling family. I wasn’t plagued by the same sadness, that had clung to me, for the past two July Fourths. I feel “lighter”. I’m more free than I’ve felt, in a long time. I can acknowledge the aches and pains, that might bubble up from time to time, without being consumed by them. My shine is no longer dimmed. My sparkle’s back. I’ve been able to allow my present joy to fill in the spaces, where I’d held onto past hurts. Change doesn’t require that nothing stays the same. It often happens without even noticing, until more time passes. Hours become days. Days become weeks. Weeks become years. Before you know it, you’ve gotten a little bit older. A little bit wiser. A little bit stronger. It seems that I too, have grown.

Used to the Fall

Leave me alone, just leave me alone…

Trying to stand here, pretending that I’m really okay
When I know inside that the hope is gone
Is like sitting all alone at 5:00 a.m. in a hotel room, when the coke’s gone
I hold onto pain sometimes, lit up by the faith of my fire
Too old to be chasing these highs, when a first line is the only good ride

‘Cause soon or later, all the curtains gon’ close, and the stage gon’ fade to black coal
And everything that you ever dreamed of will be running right out the back door
Wake up at sundown, hands up, get gunned down
By myself I’m my own worst enemy
A victim to the chains of my own stupidity

Life seems like it’s just about me losing everything that I never wanted in the first place
‘Til I slip and get attached, then the devil takes it back, and it hurts in the worst way
I’ve been stabbed in the back so much that I can’t ever trust nobody
I’ve been cut to the heart so many times that I can’t love nobody

Maybe I’m damaged goods
Half the time, misunderstood
All the shoulds, all the coulds
Can’t stop the hatchet when it hits the wood
And you can talk up a fit, you can cuss, you can spit, you can dig my grave
But you ain’t putting no debt on a [woman] that done spent life beneath these weight

One day, life’s bitter like Xanax
Next day, tastes sweet like an Adderall
Maybe I hurt myself, ’cause I’d rather feel pain than feel nothing at all
I hate coming down
Touching my feet on the ground
But man, I’m used to the fall

But don’t put your trouble on me
I got enough of that weighing on me
Already got enough demons I feed
Man, leave me alone to just breathe
I hate coming down (leave me alone, leave me alone)
Touching my feet on the ground (leave me alone, just leave me alone)

Just leave me alone
Just leave me alone
Leave me alone (leave me alone, yeah, leave me alone)
Just leave me alone

~CRUCIFIX

I haven’t written here in nearly a month. The truth is, I couldn’t. It’s not that I physically couldn’t, so much as I mentally and emotionally couldn’t. A few weeks ago, I was standing alone in my kitchen. As I attempted to rinse some dishes, and load the dishwasher, I began to feel a crushing weight bearing down on my chest. It was as if an invisible force was pressing against me, stealing my oxygen. I recognized what was happening. I’ve had panic attacks before, but this time was more extreme than ever. I held onto the counter, as I tried to focus on taking slow and steady breaths of air. Despite my best efforts to regain my composure, things only got worse. The room began to spin, and then my vision completely disappeared. All I saw was black. I fluctuated between brief periods of seeing my kitchen reappearing, but still blurry and disoriented, and then the dark nothing taking over my sight. Throughout all of this, I continued to feel as if all the oxygen in the room had been sucked out. Frantically gasping for air, as my vision faded into black. Moments later, I found myself crumpled on my kitchen floor. I laid there, sobbing uncontrollably. I’m grateful none of my kids were home to witness this. It truly is as if something very significant happened to me, that day. The tears seemed to have exhausted my hurt, worries, fears, anger, frustration, and sadness. All of these things that had consumed me and my thoughts were replaced with a coldness that, in a strange way, felt comforting. I grabbed my purse and car keys, and I left. I didn’t know where I was headed to, but I needed to escape. I drove for hours, listening to music that says what I can’t, or won’t. I played these songs so loudly that it made any thinking impossible, which is exactly what I was aiming to do.

Later that evening, after I’d returned home, Mikayla asked me if I was okay. I lied and told her I was just tired. She told me I seemed sad. I did my best to reassure her I was fine. My kids not only see that things are certainly not “fine”, but they feel it too. There’s a heaviness that seems to follow me everywhere I go. I really do try hard to shield them from these struggles, because they don’t deserve any of this. It is incredibly unfair to burden them with things they didn’t create and can do nothing about.

The next morning, I paid a visit to my doctor. I briefed him on current events in my life, and I was brutally honest about where my thoughts have led me, on my worst days. My weight had plummeted to under 90 pounds. I wasn’t sleeping, either. He spent well over an hour in that patient room, with me. I left with prescriptions for medications to help me to sleep, increase my appetite, and help me to manage my thinking. He also prescribed “Valium”. I have the full pill bottle stored in my linen closet. I haven’t taken any of those, but they’re there if the panic attacks return. I am sleeping better. I’m also eating. Not as much as I should be, but the feeling of being hungry has returned. So, I’m able to sit with my family and eat some supper on most nights. I haven’t felt the intense need to urgently “escape”, since that day, either. My thinking has changed, although I’m uncertain about where I might end up. It’s like being on a familiar road. One I haven’t taken in a very long time, but remember well. It feels “safe”, but its security comes with a price tag. It becomes dangerous, but it really depends on whether I’m willing or able to find my way back. This road calls me further and faster down it. What starts out as a barely audible whisper, grows into roaring and thunderous shouts. “Stay here, where it’s safe! Turning back is too risky! They lie, you can’t trust anyone but yourself! They’re just going to hurt you and let you down, anyway!” The loneliness of traveling by myself hurts so much less than it ever does when I trust and believe in another person to hold the steering wheel, and wind up being taken to places I never expected they’d leave me stranded. Places I almost forgot even existed. Trusting leads me into naively ignoring all the signs and signals I’d have easily recognized otherwise. So, I gradually find myself quietly shutting everyone out. I flee from anyone who gets too close. “You made me smile, so fuck you”, I say to myself. I tell myself that every attempt to make me feel something, even happiness, is malicious. It’s not safe to let them get into my head or especially, my heart. The desire to completely cleanse myself of everyone who could possibly harm me becomes near impossible to ignore. I dismiss anyone who tries to assure me “they would never…”, because I’ve got fresh scars to remind me of the hurt created by my own stupidity, believing someone else who easily broke their promises of “I would never”. Trust no one becomes my mantra, which is exactly why this road I’m on can be dangerous. I recognize all of this, and still, I can’t help but ignore every exit ramp that presents itself.

I’m not sure where I’m going, right now. I alternate between clinging tightly to Adam, and then pushing him away. And I can push hard. Some days, I don’t want to talk to anybody at all. I don’t even want anyone to see me. I search for independence, while reminiscing about the best times in my life, when I felt content and assured, knowing it was safe to depend on people. I clearly can’t decipher between what’s real and what’s just smoke and mirrors. If I could trust myself to at least recognize those things, maybe things could be different? This is all my fault. Everything. Life doesn’t just happen to us. We make choices, and those decisions create our todays. Today bleeds into tomorrow, and tomorrow spills into every single day after that. The tiniest of choices can lead to the biggest mistakes, hardest hurt, worst regret. Though we can’t ever be certain of everything tomorrow might bring, whatever happens still comes as a result of choices we make. It’s impossible to understand darkness, until all that’s light disappears. Cold is simply the absence of warmth, but when you’re wrapped inside a cozy blanket sheltered from the chill of night, cold and darkness are merely something you are abstractly aware of. It isn’t until you find yourself stuck inside absolutely frigid and pitch black misery, that you can begin to understand why I so fear allowing anyone besides myself to provide light and warmth. So long as it’s only me, relying on myself to find safety and warmth, I won’t have to worry about it being ripped from me again. I’m grieving the loss of so much that I held dear. I suppose it seems less painful to torch what’s left, than to have to wait and wonder when someone else is going to. Still, I love my husband so much. This is my conundrum. This is my struggle. The absence of pain isn’t pleasure. It’s indifference. It’s feeling nothing. I don’t know if pleasure is even real anymore. I find myself welcoming the hurt, because it assures me. I’m still here. I haven’t destroyed everything that made me human. I can still feel, and pain hurts less than feeling nothing at all.