I wrote this to myself in October 2014:

It keeps replaying over and over and over in my head. Respite, impossible. And I realize I am always afraid. I panic and have anxiety that never existed before it. I lose my breath when someone embraces me. I am forever in fight-or-flight mode, and I jump at everything. 

I want to recover. RE-cover, cover up.

Except that;

accept that. Accept it and march forward like life depends on it. Because it does. When hate seeps in, creeps in, clears everything out, and sets up camp, destroy it. Be stronger than what seems allowable. Dig deep, when your heart feels black. Uncover. Tear it open and find it beating an unyielding love. A great, whole, permissible, love. And in return, let everyone love you.

Over and over and over.

And recover.


Four years later and I don’t even know where those words came from. I don’t recognize them as my own and reading it–although I’m proud of that girl who had the fortitude to come up with such strong convictions for recovery–makes me feel uncomfortable. This is what I wish I could tell myself now but I don’t believe it.

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