Being alone leaves me with an awful lot of time to get to know myself…
You took so much more than an object that did not belong to you.
It’s been weeks now–weeks of this looming sense of manic rage.
I want to punch walls. I want to break bottles. I want to tear my own flesh off of my own body piece by piece.
I wouldn’t dare lose the remaining iota of control that I have by giving in, but I’ve been setting tiny fires with my words. It doesn’t make the intrusive thoughts go away, but if nothing else, it’s damage control.
Here’s the thing. I know, more intimately than I’ve ever known before or ever wanted to know, that there is only so much a person can take before the next thing breaks them–it doesn’t have to be a volcanic eruption; it could be the proverbial straw. Continue reading Don’t Break Me.
I am, to many, a chronic oversharer. Continue reading Privacy is important. Especially when you’re a widow.
I’ve been sitting on this post for about 24 hours, trying to find the words that perfectly reflect the intent behind it–an intent that does not involve resorting to shouting obscenities from the rooftops, despite how crushingly infuriated I absolutely feel.
Choose to be kind.
It’s been a long time since I’ve been here. A lot has changed. My blog title, description, and username no longer have any relevance, and eventually, I will change those things to reflect that. For now, they remain, because it was hard enough to get here in the first place–writing is my coping mechanism, my therapy, though; this is where I need to be. Continue reading I am no longer a wife.