the dark was closing in again. she curled herself into a ball, clutching her arms to her chest, but it didn't help. the pain lanced through her, crushing her insides as though there was a hand gripping her heart. she was so afraid of this pain, so afraid of what it would lead her to do. her arm bore the evidence of a desperation she remembered well, and it was nothing she ever wanted to feel again. but try as she might to escape, the usual methods weren't working this time. and that was how it happened last time. when everything else ceased to help, there was only one thing that relieved the pain. and she remembered with startling clarity the feel of the blade and the sharp relief it brought. the feeling of triumph when she dealt with her problems without anyone's help. nobody cared, and she didn't need them to. she could do anything, and for just a little while, she was happy, and the crushing pain was gone.
she knows how that felt. and she is afraid of what she might do to herself.
I didn’t want the moon anyway. I’ve had enough of pale promises broken and shattered fragments of dreams. I’ve had enough of mourning them, and the destruction that grieving brought.
But somehow I have to go back to the dreams, back to the fancies, back to the romances I’d spun of golden hope.
They were part of me, and without them I am not whole, not enough to offer to someone else. I have to face the pain I had pushed away, and somehow tunnel through it to the light of new hope.
I don’t know if I can do it, don’t know if the attempt will send me spiraling back into the black despair that ate at me for months, but I have to risk it. Because there is finally someone to risk it for.
And that knowledge will sustain me.
it is wonderful and amazing how writing out thoughts can help. even long after they're written, they can serve as a reminder.