I usually consider posting more than one blog a day to be...how do you say?...Ridiculous.
I cannot, however, be expected to be held to the same standards of unridiculousness at 2:24 A.M. while I am reading old blogs to pass the time until I finally fall asleep.
In October I posted a blog detailing how I must never ever under any circumstances cross my heart and hope to die do whatever it takes to stop it NEVER let myself be able to say it's been a year.
It's been a year.
As of five days ago, it has been a year. That hurts to say. Not a sharp pain; an uncomfortable, dull ache fills my stomach and drags me deeper within myself.
One year and six days ago, I think I was pretty much okay. One year and five days ago, I was not. And it continued. And it built. And so much happened that eventually I was overwhelmed. And here I am, no better off than I was over a year ago. I don't want three years of dry season! Gosh darnit, I didn't even want one!
Maybe I just expected too much from myself. I do that...a lot. It only serves to hurt me time and time again, but I can't help expecting too much all over again when a new situation presents itself.
I wanted to be better. I wanted to be well. I wanted to be out of this desert and at least on my way to the promised land. But what defines a promise anyway? Do I really have one at all? Or is another mirage catching me off guard? I am hopelessly lost, wandering in a sea of sand with nothing to block the horizon except my own hand in front of my face. There is no waterfall. There is no fresh summer grass. There is no milk and honey or happiness that doesn't last less than five seconds a pop or marriage to one's true love or beauty or the children I so desperately long for.
I am not getting better. This is not recovery. This is slowly wasting away.
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