I can’t tell you how exhausted I am. How tired I am, how hard things have gotten recently. There are more bad days than good ones.
I’ve started hiding again. And I know that’s not good.
Some days I resent my scars, as if they weren’t really what they are–which is beauty marks. And, no I don’t care if that sounds silly. It’s true. Every scar is a mark that time’s passed and you’ve lived, and that’s beautiful even if you wish you didn’t have some of those scars. As Holly Painter says: Life may cut deep sometimes but I’m still here. Scars prove that.
I miss the way things used to be. I long for simpler times. I miss having that person I could tell everything too.
You have no idea how difficult it is to balance the things that are going on, and I feel like I’m failing.
The things I’ve gone through haunt me and I don’t know how to put them behind me–I had hoped deleting a certain blog that had about 50 followers would help, but no it’s made things so much worse. Whenever I think I have gotten over something or put one thing behind me, it comes back at a moment of weakness.
I deal with disability everyday but that’s only a small part of what I’ve gone through. The issues that my family caused were much worse. And, slowly but surely, I’m feeling that pressure, giving into that pressure, to “brush it under the rug” because that’s what a good family does whenever something “unsavory” happens or is done. I’m keeping those secrets again. Putting on a mask with those I should trust. Everyday, I’m struggling to keep my head above water even though I’m already drowning.
And to be honest, I’m scared to even post this.