One thing I have yet to open up about is my coping mechanism that results in taking a blade to my wrist. I have been cutting myself for the past 12 years and have yet to find an alternative that provides such an instant release. Trust me when I say I fight with myself, scream in pillows, and read quotes on pinterest to try and talk myself out of adding to the scars on my wrist. Not because I don’t think it’s unhealthy, but mainly because I’m running out of excuses to hide them and I REFUSE to go back to the mental hospital. A couple months ago I got a tattoo of a semicolon, which means the author could have ended the sentence, but chose to keep going. It’s a nice reminder to not go all the way I guess. However, I like to think I am taking steps in my life to find different alternatives that provide a similar release; running until every part of my body hurts, screaming at the top of my lungs in the car, walking my dog, etc. Tonight was one of those nights where I had to rely on my strength to not pick up the blade. While I was at work it took every ounce inside of me to not cry and have another panic attack. I thought running afterwards would help. I ran a couple miles and decide I needed to go pick up my Zoloft prescription before the pharmacy closes. Once I pull out of the pharmacy, I loose my shit. I am crying the entire way home, sobbing in the parking lot of my apartment complex, and crash on the floor once i’m inside.  I cried so hard. I tried to explain the pain I feel inside and it’s such an empty feeling that I don’t even know where to begin. I want so badly to have the person I love with my whole heart back in my life, sitting in front of me, holding my hand, and telling me everything will be okay. Unfortunately, that’s the person every self help book and sane soul in my life has told me to not reach out to. It’s been 48 hours and I haven’t reached out. I guess that’s progress and something to celebrate.

I’ll hold off on the celebration. Because this feels like the loneliest place in the world.

I check my phone constantly to see if today will be the day he checks in to see if I’m okay. Each day I hold out that hope is another day of disappointment and wondering how can he know how badly I’m hurting and not want to check in? How can someone who told me a couple weeks ago that they love me and can’t let me go know how much I’m suffering and not ask how I’m doing. Well, let me tell you how… He’s doing everything that I should be doing. He’s taking care of himself, keeping himself busy, and trying to focus on the positives. Unfortunately for me, the fog in my head is so thick that I can’t see that it gets better on the other side and that, I too, will be okay eventually.