I have had enough of drowning in this puddle of self-pity!
The illusion of an ocean of salty tears seeping into my lungs has made me unaware of my reality.
I am choking on my own lies and manipulative tendencies, but somehow placing the blame on this imaginary puddle surrounding me. Blaming my friends, my family, the boy who didn’t text me back, the girl who called me fat, the federal loans, my bad knees, my flat feet, the weed, my father who walked away from me, God.
My reality: is that this puddle of pity is a figment of my imagination and all I really need to do is lift my fucking face up to heaven and
breathe. breathe. and breathe.
The anxiety will persist…yet I will continue to exist.
My mind has twisted the word therapist into such a mangled mass that I repulse at the mention of it. Therapy wasn’t going to solve my problems. Therapy wasn’t going to stop this spell of self loathing. Therapy wasn’t going to and never will fix me.
Why? Because I’m the one who broke me. Nobody else. Nothing else. Me.
See. I went in thinking that another human being or a prescription was going to be my panacea. Just like I thought that falling in love and throwing myself at the first person who says I’m pretty would somehow cure me.
How can someone else heal me if I can’t even deal with me? If I can’t even be real with me? If I can’t even think because I’ve made this decision to voluntarily sink into these invisible