i sat down with her and she told me her story.
i told her she had my full attention and i just wanted to support her through her recovery.
through conversations, i listened, and i feel like this is the best way to interpret what she told me.
she told me about the promises she made to herself, seem to be the hardest ones to keep and knowing she survived the last storm was no longer all she needed to be able to fall asleep.
those moments when she would look back into a mirror,
hoping she doesn't reflect and say
“How did I get here?”
those moments when her normal skin looked like silk but had been masked by hatred,
she would look at old childhood photos and say
“How did that child grow up to be like this?”
and she looks at photos of her beautiful mother in her youth
and is envious of that smile she had when she was twenty-two.
and she wishes she could say the same for herself
but she’s lived in a self-perpetuated hell.
i feel like it's past life regression that makes me care so much about her,
and i’ve never really been one for taking second chances on times that i've been broken but we can't go through another of those terrible times. even though i can't concentrate, i am doing what seems the best thing to do.
it all returns to the starting point; the enemy is always present; eyes that eats us alive; hands that strangle; the effort to live happily.
we have to stand up again and pick up all the pieces, tidy strength and face the enemy. we need to keep dancing.
so i’m gonna tell you this mia principessa, every time you tell yourself that you’re not worth it,
every time you tell yourself that you will never be happy, you’re being lied to.
and in that case, the liar is you.
