I sat here for a long time, trying to find the words. Those perfect words, the ones that will explain it all and make it seem unique and beautiful. But I can’t find them. They aren’t within me, so instead just the honesty.
I fear I will never heal. Sure, I have grown and changed, and I’ve moved on with my life, but there has not been healing. I cover it up with smiles and laughter, drinks and revelry, yet it aches beneath the surface. A year and a half later, I remain a sad wreck in my private moments.
I’ve been told it is good, these feelings. It means my love was true, pure, and unconditional. It’s not comforting, though, and I begin to wonder if the man who could love like that hasn’t now died. The hope for love and lasting happiness has faded. All I seem to be capable of now is chasing distraction while I wait for death.
Death. I think about it a lot. I at times lust for it. I imagine myself dying. I think about all the different ways I could die, how easy and simple it could be, it could happen at any moment. This is, probably in some sick and unhealthy way, the most comforting thing to me. That one day I will be dead and won’t have to feel ever again. I am so very tired.
Everything begins to disgust me. Being human seems petty, vile, and worthless. I am equally as disappointed by society as I am by myself.
I go on, though. I struggle, I bleed, I cry, and I wish so very hard for a coming day when I don’t hate life.
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