The Story Continues

June 1, 2018

I started writing at the insistence of my therapist because, turns out, I couldn’t verbally express myself.  Weird right?  I’m this super wordy, always chatty person who seemed to be emotionally stunted.  I couldn’t yell about it, I refused to cry about it, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to confront anyone about it.  So I journaled.  I said all the horribly nasty, unbearably sad, and basically just pathetic monologues in my personal journal.

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Hello you.

You.  Hello you.  I’ve met you before.  A younger, still hopeful, and somewhat arrogant version of me – she met you in a club 10 years ago.  You were unlike anyone she’d ever known and yet somehow, she knew you’d be her undoing.  One date in and that ME knew that she was done for.  She staggered forward anyway.  It’s not like she stood a chance, but she didn’t have a choice.  There wasn’t a world or a lifetime that she wouldn’t fall absolutely and recklessly in love with you.  And that’s just what she did.  That girl would go on to turn herself inside out to love you.  And man, did she love you.  If I’m being honest, I do too.  We never stopped.  Even when your words and your actions and the world would force her to leave the dimension in which we were still one.

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Time out

I put myself in time out.  Like the disciplinary kind of time out in which you put your kid in the corner to get them to think about the what and why of their behavior, I needed a minute or a handful of months to reevaluate my goals in blogging.  If I’m being honest, it probably had a lot to do with the reason I presented you with, but also there could be an uglier, less altruistic reason.

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