Coping and Surviving: A Compilation

Two Months

Sixty days.

One thousand four hundred and sixty hours.

Eighty seven thousand and six hundred minutes.

Five million two hundred fifty six and five seconds.

Everything from that day, and the days following, can all be summed up by numbers.

Three lacerations to the head.

Four broken mirrors.

Zero bodies.

Two days of work missed.

Eight scheduled therapy appointments.

Five therapy appointments missed because I couldn't get out of bed.

One boy, and one hundred and twenty minutes worth of crying and reiterating broken promises led to three years out the window.

One lease agreement to five months' rent.

My life fit into five moving boxes, which were carried up 25 steps to my room on the second floor.

Three tears stream down my cheeks as I drive for the first time in a month.

Countless flashbacks to the swallowing of broken glass, and the feeling of metal caving in on metal.

One job, forty hours a week and forty hours wishing I were somewhere else.

One school, four classes, twelve hours a week.

At least two classes missed a week because I just can't deal.

Two sisters, both too good to be in the same room as me.

Two parents, both too concerned for their own good.

One message, and two green eyes that can't be ignored.

Eight hours that came and went, and I realized I could love again.

Several broken promises, two broken people that just can't commit.

Forty two minutes home and too many tears to count.

Three weeks and two new eyes that plead for my attention,

Four walls that I put up to keep him out.

Three nightmares a week, countless panic attacks.

Five hours of tossing and turning to get my head right.

Seven days of realizing I could open up but I choose not to.

Seven days of realizing I'm worth loving but don't want to love anyone just yet.

Countless missed calls from my parents.

Countless ignored emails from my therapist.

Countless times I've tried to count my blessings but end up counting the number of scars on my forehead instead. 

Five months later and I'm still finding new ones.

Two months turns to six and my mind is still inside the car I was trapped in.

One girl.

One car.

One trauma.

One story that's still struggling to be told.

This isn't what moving on feels like.

This is hell trapped inside one person.