This is your life. This narrative and this hurt and this confusion and this wondering at 11:30 pm if it's too late, if you're going to sleep through the thing that matters and maybe just say fuckit all together and go back to sleep and then get fired and then sleep through the rest of your life.
The wondering if you are passing motionless and thinkless through your creative bursts, letting the waves crash on top of you as you drift weightlessly to the ground, shackled only by the energy which does not fill you up and revive you and bring you back to the surface.
The feeling like you are in a body whose composition is foreign to you. Whose wants you can identify as human but cannot attribute to the flesh and soul and scars that are your own.
You've spent hours and weeks - hell, you've spent half a life - misidentifying her flaws, not realizing that they were yours too, that they've been yours all along. The girl who gets hurt playing basketball after school and goes to the nurse's office and cries, who skips class because of headaches and body aches - that is you. The anxious girl beneath the wires and probes of an EKG, sitting on top of a doctor's examining table, legs hanging off the edge, feet swinging from her bent knees.
The one who draws a bath each night to drown out the manic noise of bulimia, choking, heaving salty tears and bile she cannot rid herself of. All of her is you.
Wondering if you will ever be good enough for this accidental life which you were granted without merit and possibly without sufficient thought.
Fearing that this is all there is and praying that there is nothing more. This being real and full of emotions and depression is all too much because it is real and it hurts and you don't know if it is supposed to hurt this badly but you know that it does and it's real and that hurts too. What if your feelings are too pithy or too heavy or too irrational or too much your own to explain to another person, so no one can alleviate the unberable burden of your loneliness.
What if enough is all we are given? What if no one is listening because we are deafened by our own feelings, madly, blindly screaming to unhearing ears at each other?
It is only afterwards that I realize that I have been myself this whole time. But I am not made up of compartments! The body feeling lonely and hurt and eating pizza and not being bulimic and being ok with being the girl who eats and feels and is. She was me too and she is me now. She is not the recovered me because there is nothing from which she is escaping. She cannot recover from a part of her life because doing so validates and defines the very thing from which she is running.