Journal Entry 11/30

“For a long time I reached for empty air, believing I was holding on to something real. For years I gasped in the suffocating atmosphere of midnight, trying desperately to breathe. For nearly a year now I have slowly decomposed from the inside out, being eaten away by the doubt, and the loneliness of my solitary struggle.

I do not want your pity, I just want a hug…. How sad is that? Not nearly as sad as my reflection in the mirror, I will tell you that much. I believed myself so strong, so capable, a person who never had a firm hand to hold or a solid person to turn to, and therefore under the impression that I did not need one.

I see now the fault was mine, for building my walls so high that nobody could scale them. For closing myself so tightly not even a breeze came through the crack in the door.

I have decided that weakness is preferable to the cold isolation. That sensitivity and womanish emotion are better that a dead thing that breathes but does not live. I could care less anymore if someone sees me break, after all the years of being a woman of steel, it actually feels rather nice to bend like a thin sheet of aluminum.

I have mood swings, who would have guessed that one? I even have tears in the dark of night, for things I never dared to cry about years ago. It is rather nice to discover my humanity, even if it throws my loneliness into sharp relief.

It causes me to hug myself with a desperate grip, to hum myself to sleep with my own lullabies, and vast empty wound settles into my chest and aches horribly. I feel the darkness in the sunlight, and shiver from the cold when the June day is warm. Catching me by surprise, like a sucker punch, in the midst of my laughter.

So hard. So hard. There is no relief, no escape, no balm or simple phrase to smooth the rough edges of me. Just the determination to try. Just try.

I was never the kind of woman to give up, to back down from a fight, or fail to throw myself head long at something I am told is immovable. All I know how to do is fight, it is likely I would not know what to do with love if I had it.

So you can call it morbidly romantic if it helps you swallow it, sugar always makes things taste better, but I am done mincing my words and trying to break it gently.

Have you ever seen a butterfly in the garden and marveled at it’s beauty before realizing that it was dead? It’s kinda like that…”

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