herlucidlife

Scared to fully live while fearful of dying from something stupid I chose. Nothing kills me more than me. No one hates me more than me. How can I really love myself if I’m treated this way? Or is that the mental change grief has created that I’m operating through? Physically my chest has been unsettled for days now. Small breathless moments of heart skipping, I don’t know what’s going on. Dehydrated, sleepy and exhausted, heavy in the heart, belligerently faded. The stench of relapse in the air, I’m coming out of this surely. Taking little to no care of myself, I need to do better all around. I don’t share the intimate details because I can’t take the imaginary backlash.

I do a lot yet still not enough. Tattoos but no insurance for the body. Eat healthy while consuming chemicals that undo the progress. Humanly, I am a walking contradiction. Sense has been given away, rational has left the building. I don’t like myself when I’m in this unhealthy cycle. I control whether to embark on the cycle or not, choices were made, wrong decisions were brought to fruition. Consequences becoming more real with each decision to rebel against God,. Blaming it on grief and hurt doesn’t sound plausible anymore. 

Only thing that changed was his address. Been thinking about the role I play in my grief, which has somehow formed into my everyday life. Hindering or helping? My twenties have been filled with sadness and I’d hate for my thirties to begin with it. Taking personal inventory, asking hard questions. For once I’d like to get the lesson and just do better and stay better. One thing I can control is doing better because each step is a simple choice. I didn’t know what to say when Camille asked how I was doing. Such a loaded question after the mental week I endured, or perhaps inflicted on myself. Either way I simply said good and vaguely gave the illusion that I was snapping back from something. 

Truth wrapped in loose lies. Partial facts allowed for hollow words to be enough but I just couldn’t share that I feel stupid for being depressed all week. Sometimes I let my emotions cover me so deep that when I look back it should’ve never gotten that serious. Belittling won’t whoosh them away. Instead I must love myself through it, something I don’t do too well.