The Diary

Recovery

British is a code word for "that special lad"

Letting go is full of so much pain.

I have to do it. 

I can’t hold on any more. It’s getting ridiculous.

I have Sacha now. 

But as I come out of this “phase”/love I am left wondering how much of “me” was me, and how much was really just "British"?

How much was me building myself for him? I constructed myself to be what I thought he wanted.

I did it.

I think the way he did. I perfected myself a bit too well. 

Who am I…

Well, I like high top kicks, tight high-waisted jeans, Hollywood Undead, cruel humor, and philosophical thoughts. I like singing. I like running. I like weed. Do I? Or was that for him? I’ve only been high three or four times. Not enough to know. I am unique because of my curls and the bracelets covering my wrists.

The cuts under them were "British". 

So, no more of those, I guess. 

Do I like Three Days Grace? I think so. I hope that’s not him.

Do I really want a nose piercing? Probably. 

Am I going to go back to who I was before I met "British"? 

NO. I can’t. I refuse to. 

WHO AM I?

"British" has taught me so much. He didn’t even mean to do anything, or try, but I have to give him credit for opening up a lot of my personality and thought. 

So, thanks for that.

It’s like I’m sucking out all the poison.

But without the poison I have nothing to feel.

I don’t even know if something will spark next time I see his face, and I’ll forget about all this “recovery” mumbo-jumbo. 

I don’t know if I’ll feel ANYTHING next time I see his face. 

That scares me a bit. 

He used to mean everything, and how can that all just be extracted at the snap of a finger?

I don’t want to go numb. It fucking sucks to be numb.

I don’t want to keep chasing after a dream that is just that- a dream. It can’t ever be real, no matter how hard I think and wish. 

I just have to wait things out.