I have died so many times this year. (Please don’t think this is a melodramatic or metaphorical statement about slashed wrists and giving up.)
I’ve died over and over again to parts of myself, to parts of my life, and it has been painful beyond the bounds of my writing. Bear with me, my dear and loyal readers.
Here are the mortalities in chronological or no particular order:
My eating disorder was exposed in January of 2014 and I was in the hospital for treatment for 6 weeks.
I cheated on my dear Joseph in May.
I broke up with Joseph and moved out of our home and our life we built together in May.
I rebounded, passionately and painfully.
I fucked up my finances, worst to date.
My eating disorder is still here.
I opened my heart a little to a man named Chase.
I am seeing and living the enormity of my decisions against Joseph, the man I loved.
I reached out to Joe, no response.
I’m at a crossroads for career vs. school and have no fucking idea what to do.
Least of all, or most of all, I still hate the fat girl in my mirror. Doesn’t that show you what I despicable human I am?
