Myths

Therapist said I should keep a journal.  I'm already ready to tell her that it's a bad idea when I see her on Saturday.  Because every time I've tried writing since I saw her last, I cried.  I cried because it brought me back to reality.  I don't like reality and I don't want to live in it.  I want to sit in my bed and not think about anyone or anything.  I want to fantasize about things that aren't true and think as little as humanly possible.

I want to be a lump in my bed waiting for fate to rule in my favor.  Because I've already put in my appeal and now it's up to fate.  I'm done.  I'm done I'm done.  And I remember when I met Andrew and knew I would have met that fucking pesky mosquito regardless of the circumstances.  I could have lived anywhere in the whole entire United States of America and I would have met him.

I know it.

But why?

There's something that's coming and regardless, it's good.  Even if I die a miserable unhappy lump in my bed, I'll be happy, because at least I'd no longer be in misery.  But I have this general feeling that it's not going to be the case.  I'm not going to die in misery in my bed, and all of my problems won't resolve in one night.

This is going to take awhile and there's a light on the end of the tunnel, but that light isn't in death.  It's somewhere here with the living.  I can't have it yet, for some reason.  I don't know why.  I have to sit here in the darkness in the meantime, but one day it will all make sense like it did with Andrew.  With one look into his beautiful eyes I felt comfort and everything made sense.

And then it was all washed away like a tsunami engulfed my whole entire life.

But my therapist said it will get better.  It has to.  I've had a broken life for many years.  Growing up I wanted nothing more than to die.  Dad used to threaten to kill himself.  Mom sat in my bedroom crying.  Dad drank and drank.  I got out of there.  Moved in with an abusive man who'd choke me, throw things at my head, put holes in the wall.  I'd lie there and think to myself "I don't care if I die."  So I'd let him beat the absolute shit out of me.  Then I was afraid of everyone, so I promised to not give my heart away.  To stay single.  To fuck, move on, fuck, move on.  That wasn't healthy.  I learned it when I took an HIV test, scared out of my mind.  I knew it was time to heal myself from that.  So I did.  And then I found beautiful Andrew.  An angel in my eyes.  He didn't beat me.  He treated me like gold.

But he was an alcoholic.  And he had horrible depression.

I've been given shit my whole entire fucking life.  But there is ONE LAST THING that is not complete shit.  Myself.  I'm a beautiful young woman who double majored in college, took that degree and made something of myself-  And that's all that I have.

That's it.  I have myself.  The one person who didn't give up on myself.  The one person who is stuck to live with me every single day.  The girl who looks in the mirror and sees her teared-up red eyes most nights.  The woman who is scared that she is going to be alone for the rest of her life.  The girl who is afraid that she is broken, because her entire life she was around others who were broken.  I don't give myself any credit.  I don't really love myself anymore.  I'm in lust with myself- I appreciate my curves and ability to lure a man with my bubbling charisma..

But I don't want to lure anyone anymore.  I want someone to lure me.  Someone worth taking.  I turn down men left and right and I have yet to find one worth keeping.  Why is that?  Is it my station in life?  Is this what it is?  I'm only 26, I know..

But I feel like it's hopeless.  I feel like I've never had anything worth having.  I feel like nothing is perfect.  I feel like nothing will ever be perfect.  Is that how it is?  Is true love and perfection a myth?

I don't want it to be a myth.  Please, please don't be a myth.