Shell

Whenever I’ve written in the past, I’ve always wanted to be light and airy, never too dark. Always redemptive, always hopeful.

Wrap it all up in a big fucking bow.

Glad that my good friend reminded me, I hate fucking bows.

*deep sigh*

I feel like a shell lately. Teetering between spontaneous combustion and completely empty. Numb. I hate the spontaneous combustion. But the numb? Lemme get summa that. Because my emotions have been a rollercoaster.

My flashbacks and nightmares have been getting worse. I feel the pain of what happened. Like i was just flayed in half. I feel it. The panic is back too. I’ve got this disgusting habit of picking and all I can do is pick. And bite my lips. None of it is even slightly attractive. But I’m not sure I even want to be that anymore, or that I even care.

Another weird side effect. The other day I came home from work, and I could hear my heartbeat. I hate the sound. It makes me panic. Then I spiral. So I took 1mg of my Xanax. And holy shit. It was the most calm, most at peace I’ve felt in *months*. Maybe even years? I was numb. The kind that puts you right to sleep, a blank canvas of nothingness.

I feel awful that I loved it. Maybe more so that I crave it. Because I just want sleep. And peace. No nightmares, no shaking. No crying. Just a minute where I’m not on edge.

Because most days I feel like a shell. I’ve prepared myself in advance with conversations and smiles to keep people at bay.

But the other day? That was pure bliss. And I wasn’t wondering if I wanted to die or if I wanted to live. I just existed in that bubble. Feeling nothing. Being nothing. Not really existing. Just.

Nothing.

Shell

2019

Happy New Year…

To the broken me. The confused me. The alone me. The me that isolated in the bliss of being safe. The me that craves arms to hold me but instead hold myself. Bruised and tattered and fragile and breaking.

To the me who is called survivor and cringes. To me who held on just a little longer while my peripherals became dark and my heart beat slammed in my ears.

To the me that never felt truly safe. Truly whole. Truly loved. To the me who plastered on smiles miles long if only to find warmth in the ones returned. To the me that believed the best because hope is so tempting to grasp but so devastating to lose.

Happy new year to the me that rings in with silence, in quietness, in solitude. With an ache as heavy as a boulder in my chest and words flying through my head like a file cabinet exploded.

To the me that’s decided a little longer. Just a little bit longer. Just a little while longer.

To the wringing of hands and tear stained cheeks. To the words left unspoken and to the fears still swirling in the pit of my being.

Happy new year to you, sweet girl. To me, sweet girl. Even though you don’t feel happy. Happy new year, anyway.

Because you deserve a little happiness too.

2019