I'm almost at a point in my life that I think my sadness and bone crushing depression is something that infiltrated my psyche long before the accident. Fuck, I was a walking case of teenage angst. A depressed cutter. Molested. Dysfunctional parents unlike any I've ever heard of. The only bright spot in my life was a set of green eyes that saw past all that fucking shit and saw who I really was. Who I might have been.
I'm really, really, REALLY working on all this shit. For two years now I sit and talk these traumas out. You know they say if you talk about bad things it makes them better, and while the thought is a bit Polly Anna for me, it has begun to finally work with me. SOME of the time.
One thing that I cannot, nor will I ever be able to, is to explain the ingrained, body trashing pain that I go thru over Greg's death. God, there was no end to what we dreamed. Nothing but death, which to a 17 year old, already twisted thru no fault of her own, was a mystery. And so it remains.
This entire month is long for me, but short even in it's longest days. Like my life with Greg. I could say that he's like the other bad things that happened to me. But there are days when I'd rather be molested again at 11 than go thru this kind of fucking shit I have to live with. Other times I just wish I'd have never met him and let me have gone thru hell as a teenager all on my own.
He knew all those deepest secrets of mine. Those darkest places that the light never saw. He knew, and protected me from myself. I never cut again once he found out. I never used once he found out. I never loved until I found out what he showed me love was. Hell, I didn't even love myself.
And now, after all these years, I'm finally learning how to love myself.