I wrote about being trapped by geography for so long. I genuinely believed I could escape my troubles by getting on an airplane and forging a new life.
I am still the same. I am still haunted by the same things. I am still a raging bulimic. I am killing myself slowly. I haven’t healed, I hurt less. My emotions are not as violent as they used to be but I know they are there.
I have nights when I cry till I wrap my hands around my own body and embrace myself. I cannot bear to look at my mum’s pictures. It breaks my heart. Talking to her on the phone. It crushes something inside of me. I can still smell her scent sometimes. I like to imagine her calm disposition. The trips we used to take, me on the passenger seat. Its still so vivid. I carry these memories in my bones and in my heart. I carry it with me.
I do not write as often, writing makes me tap into those dormant emotions. I can feel the helplessness in my hands. I can feel the tension, terror and confusion in my temples. I am not alone nor am I lonely. I am terrified of these avenues. I am terrified of being so broken again.