I wish I could say that I’m all better now, but I can’t.
I wish I could say that I believe it was an abusive relationship, but I don’t.
I wish I could say that I kept that fight with me for a while after my time in the psych ward, but I didn’t.
I wish a lot of things.
I’ve been home now for forty-eight hours and I am right back where I was except I’m scared to show it. I’m scared to show all the feelings that I’ve accumulated within me, the ones that pile high on my heart and threaten to explode out of my chest.
At least once a day, I breakdown. I sit and I shake and I tear up and I ask myself, why? Why does this hurt? What is possibly so wrong with my life that I feel this way? Because I don’t have anything besides a bad breakup to cause me stress. And that’s ultimately the way people are treating it.
My roommates say that they don’t have the emotional capacity right now to be of huge support. I get that. Their lives have kept going.
My friends are still in the dark about what happened. Those that do know treat me with utmost caution when I reach out to them. Few, and by few I mean two, have reached out to me.
My ex tells me to take care of myself when I reach out to him. I want to tell him that I’m not strong enough this time. That hopefully he can know how much he means to me if something happens.
I pray that something won’t happen.
My dad tells me that he can’t send me back to school until I have a day without a breakdown. He tells me that I need to be stronger. He tells me that I’m hurting my mother by being this way. I don’t know if I can help any of that.
My mom tells me that I have a life ahead of me. I wish I could see what she sees.
I hurt. I hurt so immensely that I cannot find a way to overcome it. But I fight. I sit up, occasionally I stand. I shower. I eat. I fight.
I talk. I smile for others. I listen. I fight.
I sing sad songs. I write. I watch. I fight.
Each breath in is a silent battle that I wish I knew the outcome of.
But I fight all the same. I just have to fight it.