Saturday 1 February 2020


Since December I have been spending most of my time with myself. Which is probably close to the last person I would choose.
I wish that I had learnt self-love. Self-compassion. Some god damn self-respect. And, please believe me when I say that I'm not trying to be negative or exaggerate, this is just the reality of my life.

I look back at the last (nearly) four months and all I can think is "What a waste of time". I feel as though I have achieved nothing. Learnt nothing. Having more memories of the times spent crying than laughing. Mornings that have passed with me asleep. Messages that weren't responded to. Hobbies that have literally sat gathering dust - make up brushes, I'm talking to you. Days filled with more sighs expelled than words uttered. Blog posts written only to be almost finished, saved and then forgotten. Nights where I am filled with enthusiasm only to wake up feeling drained. Increased food intake to aid me in forcing down truths I can't bring myself to face. Knowing that remembering my 30th birthday will always cause a small sting in my heart.

Accomplishing any of the above would have been incredible but there was one thing that I wanted (and needed) to focus on during this time > Healing from him. Healing from what he did. Healing from what I put myself through, by choice.

Don't get me wrong, I've been trying. My god have I been trying. But in the past two weeks, I have shown myself that I haven't been successful. The thought of him standing in front of me makes me want to kiss him. Thinking about him being near me somehow makes me reach for the self destruct button with a smile on my face all over again. It feels inevitable. I once thought that it was that he had this power over me - which is still partly true - but it's me who willingly dives onto the grenade knowing it will only be hurting myself.

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