Can anyone tell me where May went? And what about the past decade.
I look in the mirror and I honestly do not recognize the face I see staring back.
I always thought my twenties would be beautiful. Something shiny and new.
Instead, I am struck with the realization that soon I will no longer be “young”.
And what have I accomplished so far? And does it really matter? Because who am I living this life for anyway.
I’ve spent a large part of my life at war with myself. It feels really scary to think about that reality.
That I am still trying to claw my way out of a pit I fell into at 13.
And I’m now to the point where this climb feels like home, like something I feel comfortable with.
Maybe these patterns I’m in aren’t the “picture of health” but they’re a far cry better than the hell I was living in before.
I know there are those that wish for a better outcome, that recovery would come swiftly and easily.
And yet, I’m the one sitting down for a meal and looking down at my stomach, the one that used to be flat.
I’m the one navigating my way through the awkward, painful, anxiety filled moments that often dictate my actions.
Scheduling conflicts have made therapist appointments difficult, and yet this is one of the longest stretches of time I can recall that I feel somewhat stable.
I started a new antidepressant and wonder of wonders, I seem to be responding well to it.
I still feel the need to have control over food, and though some days this causes more grief than it should, I move on.
I haven’t cut in months, though I still feel deeply and I still need a channel for my hurt and anger.
Finally, my first instinct when I see what’s happening in the Whitehouse today is to laugh, because what else can I do?
And I still have fears and secrets. Dreams that may never come to fruition.
If I were to make a self-portrait, my lips would not be visible, and instead a lock would be in their place.
Right now, I am still looking for the key, yet not sure if I want to find it.