That tequila tantrum was a clear indication of my pent-up anxieties.
I saw and heard myself screaming over and over I wanted to die...
Zero regard for my own things-- obviously I'm troubled.
But all she could care about was the way she felt about everything.
She doesn't believe that I don't remember what was happening,
and honestly I don't care what she believes because I'm just worried about myself.
I don't want to be sick again.
I don't want to feel so tired of living that I slowly destroy every aspect of my own life.
I'm LUCKY I'm even this far which is still not nearly as adequate as I should be.
I don't know how much longer I can play this role. Of all I do, only maybe 25% of it is actually for me.
Truth has never set me free and it's starting to leak.
No comments:
Post a Comment