through the looking glass
Soon I’ll be starting from scratch again. This time is different. My breakup last year threw my entire life & future into a incinerator. Chopped everything up into unrecognizable pieces of what was and what could have been. No, this time is less outwardly traumatic, but almost just as internally destructive.
I will once again resume this seemingly eternal search for a psychiatrist that suits me and my specific set of needs. And I assure you that I am a closeted case of needy. This is not the first, nor second or even third time I’ve jumped on and off this rickety old merry-go-round. I’ve been shuttled from doctor to doctor many times throughout this forced exploration of self-discovery. I’ve been a willing participant for most of it, but not an enthusiastic one. This process is draining. The soul-searching proves to be soul-sucking as an unintended (I hope) side effect.
I don’t know if it’s supposed to be this hard. I never really know. Everyone tells me that the trajectory of my life has been an unfortunate one. I am the Ryan Leaf of my little world. I qualified for government assistance based on the degree of NOT OKAY I’ve been gifted. COOL STORY, BRO. (I can hear it now)
At any rate, all of these checkpoints that I’ve hit, these missions I’ve endured, all supposedly have an end game. That ‘A-HA!’ moment we’re all searching tirelessly for. You trudge through the trenches, tend to your wounds, suture the scars & finally can limp off the battlefield. That’s the plan, or so they say.
I’m reminded that with time and patience, eventually, as a joint-unit we will come across a key, some magical multi-tool that will unlock those myriad barricaded doors. That complex labyrinth conjured up by my self-sabotaging brain, hellish in nature, indefatigably relentless in strength, will crumble and crash after a certain number of these timed torture sessions. These simulated lobotomies are all pre-arranged and mutual. I’m paying THEM to drill blindly into the gray matter using their metaphorical corkscrew, hoping they mash together meaning from the pulsating pulp. It’s all pseudo-science to me, might as well hark back to the practices of Ancient Romans, rip my entrails out on to the feng-sued table before me and soothesay the shit out of me. Actually, I’ve been single long enough that any kind of human touch, sounds awesome, but that’s for a different day, BBs!
We’ve evolved too much, methinks. Or perhaps a dysfunction to my degree, coupled with being queer af, is just a way to weed myself out of the species all together. I either stamp out my existence on my own terms or at the very least won’t guiltily pass on these self-cannibalizing traits to the next generation. Despite that being a future I’ve accepted, it’s brutal to type out. I’m better off childless and dead than I am as a propagator of the human race.
Yet, those are not even the issues I need to sort through with a doctor. I don’t care about my sexuality. I love women. I love being gay. That is something that makes sense and fits me fine. I’m not religious. I never have been. I questioned the existence of God the first time I read Genesis. I didn’t buy into it then it and suspension of disbelief has never been my strong suit. I will question, poke and prod at flimsy theories, debunk as many half-truths as I can before blindly accepting your “fact” as an actuality. I’m curious. And none of these Sunday school teachers could sate my thirst for more proof. So, I gave up trying. I moved on. I have no qualms with my lack of faith. That’s also extremely on-brand for me.
I don’t sit and ponder “why me?” Not often. It has crossed my mind, but what’s the point? That ship has sailed. For as long as I can remember, I was overly anxious and petrified of critiques. The blow never softened. You couldn’t sugar coat it enough to prevent the tears from flowing. The evolution from able to pass as somewhat put together to the outright personification of a malfunction was unhurried. I kept the seams taut at the edge of my gut for as long as I could muster. Believe me, I had help. I had my parents. And they had their reputation and sanity in tact. When left alone for any period of time, I quickly melt into a puddle of missed opportunity and disappointment. I hoped no one would notice me casually slithering into the nearest sewer.
I recently realized that had it not been for my family lifting up my lifeless form, time and time again, literally pushing my reanimated carcass out the door every morning I would have never even graduated high school. Every goal I reached was their doing. Sure, I put the work in. I had a natural gift for learning and athletics. But, it wasn’t my dream I was fulfilling. It was theirs. I just wanted to disappear. I still do, but not always. That part is new. That part is why I’m writing this.
For the first time in a decade, I’ve finally stopped starving myself. This cannot and should not be interpreted as some sort of full-fledged recovery. I do not want it to be viewed as such. And that is a problem that I have to continue to iterate. It’s not. I have no understanding of how to eat as a normal adult. All I had to do was give up on my size OOs and say “FUCK IT.” That’s all. Ha. This was purely and simple an admission of defeat. I had to forgo my sense of identity as a tiny waif of a human and learn to inhabit the skin of someone “average”. I almost never brag about myself, but I really have been quite brave throughout this process. It has devastated me, but I refused to allow that to put a literal nail in my coffin. I have no partner. I have no one I’m interested in impressing. I just had to alter course or I had no chance of ever escaping whatever realm of Hell I’m currently stuck in. Even at my thinnest weight, 78 pounds at 5’5″, I showered with the lights off. I couldn’t address my own reflection in the mirror. I have conquered that. That’s so insane to believe, but I have. I had to accept reality. There was no other way. I’m more willing to strip down for someone now than I ever was before–even with my ex. Am I happy with what I see? I am not. But, at least I’m choosing to live in the real world, kind of.
I’ve reached a weight restoration (and then some) point, but I’m so far from any type of a true happy ending. My current pattern is to wait until the sun goes down to start shoving whatever I crave into my face. It’s called BINGEING. And it’s something that I’ve always done, off and on. Previously, I would counteract the damage with a forced period of starvation or only fill my body with calorically light items. Shocking that my black and white interpretation of the world would extend to my inability to ration out my food supply like even a child is capable of doing. Listening to hunger cues? What the fuck is that, even? Nah. I was the kid with the activity level, genes and metabolism rate to not worry if I ate the whole block of Velveeta with a couple bags of chips on the side. It didn’t matter. I still fretted over it. I still hated myself for it, but the flogging was only internally mutilative. The scars adorning my arms, neck, back and legs? Never because of my issues with food, surprisingly. Maybe I’ll talk about that next time.
The food obsession might never go away at this point. It’s possible that I’ll never reach that moment where it all finally makes sense. Right now, I’m allowing all of these inconsistencies and slip-ups because I know that I have an addictive personality. I don’t want to segue from one unhealthy lifestyle to another. You know the type… I suddenly find my conscience underneath these flab rolls and opt to become vegan out of this newly discovered love for animals. Bullshit. Those are the ones who hide their issues under a guise of holiness. They believe, and accurately, that they can escape scrutiny if their altered eating plan is stamped with a label of approval by the NIH or the FDA. “But look how big this salad of kale and cucumber w/ just the dressing from God’s love to season it with” is not fooling me. Nor is your bloody bandaged devotion to some exercise regiment. I’m not ragging on those people. All of this is hard. It’s so hard. Our brain wants to fight recovery at every turn. It’s not inaccurate to say that the chemistry changes when in a state of deprivation for a certain epoch. That’s why their are so many shared patterns and seemingly bizarre similarities between patients suffering from an eating disorder, particularly anorexia. Cooking for other people, watching the Food Network, being able to exercise for longer periods on fewer calories, not feeling the repercussions of those workouts… it’s all a commonality. Honestly, it all sucks. It’s a lifelong issue for many, probably more than we realize. And unlike other addictions, we can’t just give up food. It’s essential to living and also what prevents us from truly doing so in the process. Whomp whomp, merry christmas.
A fun thing anorexia does to you is prohibits your ability to accurately distinguish between punishment and reward. Your penchant for receiving or seeking out pleasure diminishes. It can’t be used as a prize for accomplishing a goal. You view yourself as flawed or unworthy. Your sensitivity to criticism increases exponentially. Anxiety is your crutch. Panic is your comfort. Delusion is your guide.
And they don’t know if these are caused by anorexia or if people with those inclinations are more prone to develop the disorder. I can tell you that I’ve always had those issues apart from the anorexia ever since memories started sticking. I’ve always been a perfectionist, who if incapable of obtaining the gold, would pull away and give up completely. We have video evidence of this in action: my realizing I was being filmed trying to do a gymnastics routine and then shrieking hysterically when I messed up. pleading for them to switch the camera off. anger by way of perceived failure and subsequent humiliation. I was about six. Many such instances. Playing basketball in the driveway, alone and missing too many shots= a thrown ball, a punched wall, so much disappointment in my incapability of surpassing unrealistic expectations. My last semester at school, how I dropped out was by knowing I was going to fail my final and opting to just walk out of it. I hadn’t prepared. I was overwhelmed with life. All of my mental issues reached their apex simultaneously in this epic example of self-implosion. My attention issues led to consistent disorganization. My spirals had fewer notes and more drawings of punk rock cartoons and calorie counts of the tuna and green apples I ate that day. I’d miss weeks at a time because my skin was broken out or I overate and felt hideous. Sometimes, I’d make the 8 mile drive to campus, park, stare out the window, hands white-knuckled around the steering wheel… and then I’d just start the car and leave. Occasionally I’d go to the movie theater, where I’d buy one ticket and spend all day watching film after film. A few times, I’d walk across the street to the shopping center with a Barnes and Noble & Best Buy and camp out there for hours on end. Sometimes I’d walk laps around the campus just to burn the zero calories I ate that day. Depending on my current eating state: I’d either want to avoid going home where I was tempted by food or I’d immediately lock myself in my room with boxes of cereal to tear through. Depending on my current physical state, I’d either go to the local high school and run stairs RIGHT AFTER these binges or I’d buy an OTC emetic that induced vomiting… turning the music up, lying on the floor of my bathroom, sobbing… until I could feel contractions in my stomach. I was always alone. I had friends who eventually left me because of how often I’d cancel plans. And really, who wants to go to dinner with the girl who sits and watches you eat with no plate of her own? I never asked, but I just extricated myself from the equation altogether. I never recovered those friendships. I never tried. I felt I deserved the ostracization. . What horror did I not deserve? I appeared selfish. I would call in for work. I would not go to family functions. I dropped out of school and used the tuition money to go across the Atlantic ocean to follow a band around Europe. I risked everything to escape reality. But, it kept following me…. no wonder I related to “it follows…” so much.
We’re remodeling our kitchen right now, and all the cabinets had to be ripped out. I asked my mom to let me know if they found any hidden shot glasses, flasks or bottles of Taaka anywhere. Not to consume. Just to laugh about the lengths I’d go to for liquor. They didn’t. But, they did find 3 empty boxes of (now) discontinued cereal. Hidden evidence from the past of a binge I wanted to go unnoticed. I freely own up to this type of behavior now, at 31. I hide nothing. I’m an open book because I want to get better. I think. Some days.
It’s just a lot. I’m a lot. It’s all just so much and all at once. I chip away at something and another issue will manifest as a different enemy to combat, some darker and more sinister than the ones I previously slayed. I went from anorexia to alcoholism and from alcoholism to anorexia. Right now I’m addiction-free. Coincidentally, I’m also passionless. I’m dreamless. I’m a blank slate, an empty shell, a cellular entity suspended in animation. I’m aging, but I’m not advancing. Or maybe I am. I can’t even tell anymore.
Sometimes I can see off in the distance, eyes aglow with the promise of the green light across the water. Maybe it is all just a fantasy: recovery, health, happiness, but it’s one that I sincerely want to give a shot at obtaining. I’ve been trying. None of what I say is hyperbolic in nature. I have no reason to exaggerate. I’m not writing a memoir. I’m not trying to sell you on the severity of the obstacles I’ve endured; none of them forced upon by external factors, all manifested within. I can’t overstate that fact enough.
I’d chug a bottle of vodka to let me breathe without the weight of the world pressing down upon my chest, my shoulders fatigued from years of holding so much guilt upon them. Guilt from leaving so many loved one’s dreams for me left unfulfilled… their ellipses now a point, a period on the timeline. Their disappointment has always been the crowning jewel of my shame spiral. I have no stake in myself. I can curate no pride from within. I am nothing if not someone’s everything. And I haven’t even been particularly good at that, since all these maladies make everything murkier and more difficult to sift through. If I’m starving I can’t be sharp. If I’m in my head, I can’t give you my heart. If I’m too worried about the result, I’ll never participate in the now. My fear will always prevent me from falling, but the failure truly stems from never trying at all. Lessons learned, all the hard way.
I’m a chainsaw rigged to maneuver in a circle. I’m a dog chasing its tail. I’m too dizzy to escape, too disorientated to pick a direction in which to head. So, I shrink. I incubate. I take a Benadryl and Melatonin with a belly full of food, crawl under the covers, curl into a ball and cower away… each and every night. Nothing stronger so I won’t have to undergo another stint of self-prescribed rehab. I can’t spend my entire “life” clawing out of another hole I dug. I have to give myself a chance. So, I drift off to the sounds of familiarity lulling me into a dream I hope to never wake up from… 30 Rock on repeat, every night. Almost zero exception. It’s my security at this point. It’s not only comforting, but it helps me hone in on how to make people laugh. I’ve always had a great sense of humor. I’m quick-witted, but I’ve always kept my jokes and one-liners to myself because of ineffective communication skills. I can’t handle the pressure. I balk at being granted the spotlight. I second guess that which CANNOT be second guessed. I learn timing, facial expressions, and really do attempt to learn confidence from mirroring these comedic geniuses. Maybe it can’t be taught, but I just have to learn how to “people” again after being so alone for so long. If I’m lucky, if my muscles allow, I’ll stay in my cave until the late afternoon.
At the end of the day, I just want to be liked. Not because it feels good, but because I know what it feels like to be 100 percent enamored with another. It makes the days worth enduring. It gives every action a sense of purpose. It keeps me wanting to improve, grow and achieve. I cannot produce that flame of willful desire without another to spark and ignite it. I unashamedly live for others. But, I want to be worth it. I thought, in my past relationship, that if I was pretty enough, then maybe that would be enough reason to stay. If I could just be skinny, then all the other issues would fall by the wayside. It’s not that I believed her to be shallow (she wasn’t) or unintelligent (she wasn’t), but that’s what the broken mind wanted to believe. I could control that. I could make my weight plummet. It did. I did.
Guess what? She still left me.
Now I have a mind that can think straight. I am not a zombie going through the motions. I am fully aware. When awake, I am on high alert. I notice all. My intake receptors are finely tuned after a long period of dormant hibernation. I’m ready to seek help. But, where do I even start? I’ve been told on many occasions that I was too much to take. Not just by friends, but by doctors and therapists. No one is qualified to deal with me. I’m smart and I’m strong-willed. I can pinpoint my issues, mostly. And I can try to conceal or tame them when needed, but I’m a master manipulator. THIS IS NOT SOMETHING I CHOOSE TO DO. It happens without even trying. I catch myself now and can redirect intent. Yet, it is always attempting to infiltrate every proactive step forward. I THINK it’s a self-preservation technique to keep my feelings from getting hurt. A defense. A shield. Unfortunately, by nature, I’m an extremely nice person. I have a desire to please. I have a desire to take away everyone’s pain and suffering. I want to be the fixture that brightens. I want to openly love. That’s who I am. That’s how I think. But, this fucking piece of shit disorder wants me to use sarcasm to cover up anything saccharine or sincere. It wants me to be caustic and cunning when I want to be courteous & complimentary. It’s always afraid I’ll be rejected or misconstrued, that I’ll say the wrong thing or it won’t be received the way I imagined. I insult instead of encourage. Fortunately, I’ve been gifted with a smile that lifts even when the words don’t quite match up. I am TYPICALLY perceived correctly though it takes time to decipher and interpret my quirks and eccentricities. I truly believe that my family is JUST NOW starting to “get me.” I’m a cryptic puzzle and until you figure me out, I’m the white-airhead mystery flavor. And I believe that I’m not worth the time it takes to investigate. I’m not rich. I’m not employed. I have no possessions. I have no future, but a truly fucked up past. I’m not hot. I’m not special. I’m just me. And that’s super meh. Although, I am the perfect amount of snuggly and independent. I’m very cat-like in this way.
Right now, I am not enough of a reason to want to keep going. With any of it. With sobriety. With recovery. With existing. But, I haven’t given up because I still have options to try.
I thought life was over a year ago today, when I realized my girlfriend was no longer my girlfriend And it was…the life I had envisioned was stolen from me. I had it all planned out, our future, together. Always together. I could picture us white-haired, holding gnarled brittle hands, stronger together– still making each other laugh at how dumb everything is. This was the first time I was ever able to see a version of me beyond youth. I assumed I’d be dead before middle age. I’m back to facing that at the axis of the horizon.
But, I can say that I have been able to heal. The emotional hemophilia, that which I thought would never cease to hemorrhage, cauterized and coagulated. I didn’t bleed out, when I was so very sure I would. Do I still bring her up when relaying an anecdote? sure. Do I have to push away memories, conversations, and her intense betrayal? YUP. I think I’m stuffing down all of that for another time. Those are normal things that everyone deals with post-breakup., angrily smashing mementos into a box and setting it aflame. Well, I’ve just opted out of the burning effigy, for now. Sometimes our shared past can comfort, even still. She’s a seriously flawed person, who still cannot see the error of her ways, but who I would do anything for. Even now. Why? Because she’s a special individual, who saved me time and time again. You don’t stop loving someone because they fucked up.
See, look at that? I say it and yet I don’t believe it about myself. That’s the distorted carnival mirror nonsensical element that I want to escape. Get me out of this fun house, thank you, please.
This resiliency is killing me, except it’s not.
I’ve self-harmed with such intensity and reckless disregard that I’m riddled with scars. The kind that won’t heal up nice and pretty-like with some Mederma. The kind I have to explain. The kind that are a huge turn-off. The kind that needed stitching. The kind that left nerve damage. The kind that could have, should have killed me, if my partner hadn’t had a rudiment set of army medic skills in her back pocket. Such a clever cat, she was.
They didn’t leave me dead, but they did lead to a psychiatric ward in Austin. It left me handcuffed, in the back of a cop car, silently accepting my transport to an institution. It led to years of drinking heavily to avoid dealing with problems, so deeply embedded within my core. Inextricable. I’ve been to an overnight detox clinic. I’ve been handcuffed, again, for being a suicidal threat and taken to the ER because my blood alcohol level was at .40 (and I was still not even close to my black out point). I’ve been through the DTs at least ten times. I started seizing, despite not being epileptic, during each withdrawal. My hallucinations, while never visual, were somehow worse since I was acutely aware they were happening, yet couldn’t shut them off. All auditory. Usually music, sometimes sports broadcasting, often old-timey and patriotic. “Stayin’ Alive” by the Bee-Gees was the first one I heard. On repeat. I tried to leave the apartment to go running (anorexic mindset), to see if I could outpace it. I couldn’t. I thought I was going to die. I got lost. I was crying. It was truly terrifying. I vowed to never drink again. I did.
One morning I woke up with what I thought was sleep in my eyes, that filmy haze that sometimes you can rub or blink off in a few moments, only it didn’t go away, not then, and not since. It’s a permanent vision loss called nutritional optic neuropathy. Guess what causes it? drinking cheap liquor in excess and a malnourished diet… I was an anorexic alcoholic who stopped taking vitamins because of the 15 calories each had.
I’ll always have a blurred central focal vision. Always. It’s tolerable, but I think it can be a burden. I remember my ex, a few weeks before leaving, used it to hurt me by getting upset that I needed her to drive me to my parents house, ten minutes away. I had no car, at the time. And, I was unsure if I was legal to drive (I am). Citing instances in the past where I hadn’t wanted to go somewhere with her because I wasn’t feeling up to it. It wasn’t something I could fix or change. It just was. So, I KNOW it gets frustrating when people try to show me something and I can’t make it out or when I have to have help reading text. I either have to sit super close to the television for subtitles or have them orated. Yes, it’s annoying for me, too.
At any rate, I’ve dealt with all of these things and have come out on the other side. Some part of me must want to keep trying. So, I am. And so I will continue to, until I just can’t handle another moment of torment. I get close. I haven’t in months. I had a plan at one point in 2017. But, I didn’t follow through. I got a couple of new scars. That’s it. That’s a victory.
Small things keep giving me hope. I struggled so mightily with putting the weight back on while simultaneously going through these dermatological regimens that led to my lowest point of self-esteem, ever. In order to compensate for my ghastly appearance, I would wear hoodies and avoid eye contact (more than usual), but UPPED the social quotient regardless of the insecurities. I would be MORE outgoing, MORE engaging, MORE lively with everyone I encountered. I ignored what I knew I looked like and hoped to make a connection that would diffuse the awkwardness of having to talk to the fucking Elephant man. It has been a rough year.
One of the gifts of vision loss is that I can no longer make out faces in a crowd (this is also a detriment when trying to find my crew in the supermarket, but I digress), so I cannot tell if people are staring at me or judging me in any way. I can remain oblivious to their scrutiny. I can pretend they’re not there. If I overthink it, I’ll remember that I know that they are… I mean, I’m a lesbian with short bleached hair and blue streaks, who dresses like a boy in a super conservative Texas town. I overthought it for a second last night at my niece’s church play, and I mistakenly zoned in on a select few’s faces, and yeah, that familiar look of confusion and mild disgust was there. But, I kept being myself. I wasn’t glued 2-dimensionally to the back wall. I was spinning in circles alongside my toddler niece. I didn’t let it dictate my next move. That was huge.
This evening, when at my sister’s house, she handed me something to give to my mom. My bitch-ass instinct was to scoff and be all “Why didn’t you just give it to her yourself?” … and then I stood frozen in my tracks, mid-sentence, turned and said to her: “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I said that. I don’t care if you gave this to her or me.”
And I Just walked away, stunned at why I do these things. My intent is so frequently the opposite of what ends up taking place, that whole childlike mentality of “I’m going to kick you, ’cause i like you.” This leads to many, many (x9812) nights of ceiling-gazing, cringing at every misstep you made at that one party 9 years ago. I’m going to start correcting myself immediately. Break that habit.
Once again, I’m trying.
A cool new thing that transpired in recent weeks is that super weird sensation of developing a crush on someone. The idea of this ever happening to me again has repulsed me as recently as a few months ago. I truly did give everything I had to my ex. It wasn’t enough, in the end, but it was all I had at the time. No one’s fault. Regardless, I didn’t think I could ever feel amorous in any way towards anyone. I’ve flirted, very casually and with absolutely no intent of following through, on certain occasions where I’ve encountered someone interesting. I mainly just wanted to gauge reactions. I wanted to make someone feel good about themselves without being creepy or too suggestive. If it had been reciprocated (and I didn’t frame it as an invite), then I would have just ghosted tf out of them. Sorry. I’m awful, because of broken brain syndrome.
But, this last time was different. I should iterate that this is a very safe infatuation to have because it’s completely unobtainable. It will never be anything other than what it stands as of now. Not only is this girl straight, but also so far out of my league and into another orbit that even if she weren’t, I would never have had a chance. Also, geographically super far away. I tend to get these type of crushes on those with talents that I wish I had or that far out perform my own. Talent crushes have always usurped the physical, for me. I have no interest in supermodels. Although, this particular girl is also really really good-looking. But, truly, I don’t give a shit about what someone looks like in a swimsuit. I don’t care about what type of show they put on. Sure, that’s great and good for you, but if they don’t intrigue, inspire or leave me with more questions than answers–then, I’m not ever going to care enough to blink an eye. I am no treasure, but I always find myself attracted to those that are and don’t quite realize it. I like those who are complicated. I like those who use humor to deflect. I like it when you can see in someone’s eyes a universe worth exploring… intelligence, a curiosity, a fire, an element of imperfection that allows them to see the world through a unique perspective. A kindness that someone like me has to seek out to avoid getting destroyed.
It’s rare for me to ever be allowed that kind of access through rotating doors or casual pass-throughs. It’s never going to happen at a bar or over dinner. It takes awhile for most to slough off their protective gear and allow their vulnerabilities to show through. Not me. I’m obviously up front and immediate in my presentation. If I display my burdens then I can’t have them be used against me, or so I hope. It’s why I stopped wearing makeup, most of the time. I used to never go to bed without it on if with another girl. I’d never let them see me unmasked. Afraid to disappoint. I’d be peer pressured into doing anything the other wanted, which as you can imagine has taken me down a glittery colorful path because I never went for safe. Safe is boring. Risks can be fun. But, of course, eventually the ruse would be over, the curtain would lift and I’d be left standing their, fully exposed. Nothing lasts forever. Now I am very much a take me as I am and hope you can make me into something beautiful.
So, unexpectedly, a cool chick on the internet posted funny clever things on twitter and I started following her. Then, I saw she had an Instagram. She would post funny clever videos on there, so, I started following her there, too. Man, the term “following” sounds as invasive as it probably should. Then, I realized she had certain similarities in struggles as myself. And then the worst/best part is that started caring about what she said or thought. That’s when I realized that not only is this a dumb problem to have, but also kind of a great sign. It meant I was finally ready to put the past where it belonged. Bury it. It’s the most optimistic thing that I’ve encountered in many months, if not years. Not only is it just a fun feeling to have, but it’s a sign that I can imagine a future again. That there is a reason for tomorrow. That there is a goal to work towards. That all is not lost. A reminder that I have a heart that still has little gushes of ridiculousness to give away.
Honestly, I couldn’t be happier. EVEN if it was always a fantasy, it’s one that provides hope. And hope is all we need, sometimes. So, here I am, willing to step foot into a psychiatrist’s office once again. Fuck.