She flopped on the bed and laid still for just a moment. She pulled one leg under the other and stared up at the ceiling.
“Thank goodness today is over,” she mumbled under her breath as she rolled over to grab her journal and pen out of the nightstand drawer. Before she knew it, she was scrabbling desperately on the page.
Ha! How lame does that sound? Like I’m some teenager from the 80’s writing love notes in a book. No. We aren’t going to be doing that in this book. I guess I shouldn’t start each entry with that moving forward.
Anyway… Tonight I feel like I’m bottling. Everyone always says ‘I always hold everything in for so long until I break!’ and I don’t want to break, so I just need to get this shit out. I can’t breathe because I have so much anxiety taunting me inside of my head. I wanna be the person that uses their art for decompression. So here are these words.
Being written in order to sooth a soul that currently sits unsettled.
How can you claim to love someone if you continue to relapse back to the thing that tore you apart?
How aren’t we enough to make you stop?
I try to understand. I try to be empathetic to the fact that not everyone is raised with all of the advantages that I was. I try to sympathize with what has been overcome. But sometimes
It’s just not enough.
Your claims get countered every time you relapse. I lose trust in you every time I hear the latest stunt you’ve pulled. I hear. It makes me sick. It makes me angry. It makes me lose hope.
You have no idea the impacts of your actions, even to this day.
I was once a child distraught with heartache and resentment and misunderstanding. But now I’m an adult with disdain, apprehension, but most importantly, disappointment.
I can’t trust you.
It’s been seventeen years.
And you still don’t have your shit together.
And I’m just supposed to believe you’re telling me the truth?
Like I said, I was once that child. But I’m not that child anymore.