secrets.

Untitled Part 52

this part is intended for December.

I can feel my mind doubling back on itself.

The blackness of my chest is growing again, and I'm feeding it.

I keep trying to let this go. Keep thinking I have. Keep trying to move on.

I know you hate me, you hate me.

It's like there's two of me; the one who speaks to you now, two years later, and the one who tells herself all that she did wrong and who wrote to you in December and who can't fucking let this go.

You know that you hurt me. You want to forget it.

But I can't.

I was in love with you.

My deepest fear was abandonment.

I hurt myself deeply and I can feel relapse around the corner.

I know if I do it again it'll be the last time it happens.

And I'm really, really trying not to.

I don't want this to happen again with the girl I'm in love with now.

And I'm not writing to you after all this time because I miss you, or because I want you back, or because I want you to feel as miserable as I did and do.

I'm happy. I keep having to remind myself of that, sure, and it's easy to forget, but that doesn't mean it isn't true or that it isn't set in stone. I am happy.

I have people who help me stay happy on the days that I forget it, but honestly I've learned from our mistake that I'm not happy unless I can say that I'm happy when I'm alone.

And these days, I can.

But right now, this very moment...

I'm reading about December. I'm missing December. I'm thinking about the blood that dripped from my arms and I'm thinking about how I want that back. I want that back.

I'm so easily triggered and I keep forgetting that...

I'm getting off track.

December,

You broke me. You hurt me.

I'm still hurt.

I fell into a habit that I've fought for two years to get out of, but the harder I tried the deeper that habit became.

It's like I'm a record player and I just keep playing the same song over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over

I'm obsessing again.

You left me. You hurt me.

I'm obsessing again.

You left me.

You hurt me.

I'm obsessing again.

You

left

me.

You tried to help and I pushed you away and it's okay that you left.

I told you to, after all.

In a romance novel you'd have fought for me, but this is real life, and I asked you to leave so it was unfair of me to get angry when you did.

But you hurt me. You hurt me. You hurt me. You hurt me. You hurt me.

I tried to kill myself three times in my sophomore year of high school.

Sometimes I wish I'd succeeded.

Other time I'm glad I didn't.

It's funny because recovery is so, so hard. It's so easy to relapse and I'm so glad I haven't in a long time, but it's easy to do so.

Everyone talks about how to start your path of recovery, but no one mentions how hard it is to keep going.

And the trigger for my greatest pain was you leaving.

I tried to kill myself because of you.

It was never fair of me to put the full weight of my recovery on your shoulders but I did. I hurt myself, because I forced you to leave, and then I got mad at you and I lashed out and I hate myself so much.

I hate myself I hate myself I want to die I want to die.

Fuck everything I want to die.

breathe

I write a lot nowadays.

I need to, I guess.

I smile a lot nowadays.

I have good reason to, I guess.

I love more nowadays.

I'm happy.

And it's all because you left.

And fuck you for that.

A part of my depression that I never recognized was the obsession.

I latch on to something that brings me the smallest joys and I don't let go.

I squeeze it to death and I still hold it.

I watch it rot and I still hold it.

I ruin things and I still hold it.

I obsessed.

I replay us over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over.

I need to stop but I can't because recovery is a long path.

I think the first step was when I got happy.

When I acknowledged my resentment and anger for you.

I was happy and I hated you and those things were happening at the same time.

And that was okay for a very long time.

And the next step is ending this cycle of pain and obsession and it's kinda hard, but I'll get there.

My depression makes me obsess.

I want to stop.

I want to stop.

I want to stop.

I hurt you. You hurt me. And my brain won't let me stop reliving that.

I hate this I hate this I hate this.