excerpts from stories i will never write

she reduces herself to ash shifting from this reality to one in the future she becomes formless she is a shadow she  follows life's pattern like the good little girl she's always been there is no rest for the wicked she cannot sleep you are calling but she is gone.

survival mode.  i fight  one thing    one goal     one feeling     one emotion      one battle                  at a time. am i not allowed to  struggle here ? am i not allowed to have a bad day ? must i always be on  [mentally] / [top of things] / [like an extrovert] ?

it feels like every week i can't focus too tired too stressed  a thousand things running through my head the week ahead the week behind like every week i look back i look around i look up and wonder what they have that i don't  what i'm missing what i'm doing wrong to feel so alone and lost and afloat i tell myself -- every week -- "this is just a bad week. it is okay to just have a bad week." but every week is a bad week every week there's something wrong and i pray every single day for trust and for contentment and for letting go of control so where is the fulfillment? where is the answer? why am i still here  every week heart beating faster and faster my breath going in and out and in and out in quick quick quick quick time beat if every week is a bad week where are the good weeks? where are the good weeks? --2.14.21

feels like i'm missing something? looking around at all the people around me i felt myself tear up. i started to cry. because i felt like i was missing something. i still feel like i'm missing something. that i keep doing everything i've been told. that i'm doing the best i can. that i've taken on more than i can handle but i don't want to give any of it up. should i be doing more? do i need to sacrifice some of my own time, some of my own mental health? how much is too much; how little is too little? i feel like i'm drowning. and everyone around me is floating but i can't see how they are. how they manage. i don't feel like i can manage. i don't feel like i'm able to manage.  i know i'm depressed again. i keep feeling myself on the edge of tears. i've been a terrible person this past weekend and he doesn't deserve that. i know the feelings aren't permanent. but they feel like they've never left when they come back. and no

i'm i think i'm depressed. i'm done hiding things here. it's as my parents told me; "no one reads. no one cares." right at this moment, i cannot remember joy. i cannot remember sitting down to a good episode of a show i love. i cannot remember wanting to be cuddled. today i was scared of touch. me, the touch starved person i am. scared of physical contact with the right person. i shy away. i am shutting down. i am hungry but the thought of food makes me want to vomit. day after day, minute after minute, second after second. shoving food into my body which does nothing but sustain me for several hours until i convince myself to eat again. it's anti-cognitive––i know i need to eat; it will keep me healthy; by not eating i am gaining weight. and yet here i am. the smell of food is disgusting.  of course, material things do not help. no amount of metal in my body, ink on my skin, things i can hold, medication in any form will make me feel better. i know i have

soon i will throw out the last thing i keep around that reminds me of you–– such a small thing–– a pen. scratched on the sides, worn from use, running out of ink. traced out lines in my Bible, careful note-taking,  kept my hand steady. soon i will throw away the last thing that reminds me of you. it may not even be the exact same one you bought me as i bought another pack of the same pens sometime after regardless it's almost gone now like you the lines in (of) my memory faded. i have to press down on the paper to get your pen to write for me. a blade almost cutting the paper like the lines you made on my heart when you left. and you left so many times. so many times. but soon i will throw away the last thing that reminds me of you and maybe, maybe, you'll leave with it. just a pen.  --9.28.20

terrified. so far away, but distance makes things both easier and harder. different things. scared she's not ready, will never be ready. will never be good enough. scared she won't be able to let go of herself enough to hold onto someone else.

feeling kind of like i'm floating. temporary. not all the way here. like i'm in space, or flying, or falling.  just here for a little while. like i'm afraid to get back into things again.  like i'm afraid to get used to things, because they're going to change-- not just in the next few months, but the next few days. like i'm scared. just scared. of everything. like i want someone to hold me to sleep just so i can feel safe, comforted, in a controlled place. not depressed in the way that i may burst into tears at any moment, but more like i am on the brink of a cliff waiting to do something expensive unexpected impulsive fly or fall --8.18.20