Sometimes I wonder why I keep myself alive. So much of my life is consumed in trying to heal that it’s as if I’ve lost a sense of what’s real and what’s not. My brain is so confused that I’m not even sure what’s happening most of the time. One day I’m okay the next I’m in ruins. One day I’m a little iffy and the next I’m rolling in a tide of overwhelm so deep it drowns me over and over. I’m tired. I’m tired of trying so hard for something that is so easy for others. Memories of dead animals, fighting parents, thrown axes, backseat cop rides, inserted objects, slit wrists, threatened death, and so much more run through my head faster than I can think. Flashback after flashback appearing in front of me, raging through my body, at moments, leaving me out of control. Constant chatter from those little voices that seem to have nestled themselves comfortably in the neurons of my brain. Little girls fighting for control, fighting to win ownership—presidency—over my body. It’s tiring. Sometimes I look back at my day and it frustrates me that, though I tried my best, the downfalls outweigh the good things of the day. What is love? What is health? What is a “happy” life? I mean is my life REALLY that bad? Do I really live in Crazytown all the time? Is it really crazy? Really though, are my thoughts really that crazy? I write on this blog, as a journal type, to succumb the whirlwind in my head–but nothing comes of it–the winds are still blowing. These kinds of battles are constantly happening inside my petite little body. What’s real? What’s not? What’s appropriate? What’s not? Who do I believe? Who’s not trustworthy? It’s kind of old. My body can’t handle a single day of fun. I go out with Zhanna and have a good day and I come home and all the sudden I’m in the middle of a major breakdown, alone. I have a good day at work and I get home and all the sudden I can hardly function. Why? It’s ONE day. I’m to the point that I don’t really know what to do anymore. I know that the best road would be to continue on with the healing but a big part of me is just tired of trying. I’ve resorted back to old, self-injurious habits just so I can feel something, so I can handle the engulfing overwhelm, enough to function. I’ve started withdrawing and returning to my own little world while forcing myself out of my house to socialize. I’ve fallen so far backward that the progress I have made feels almost worthless. I’ve heard the saying, “You want to accomplish something but you don’t want to do the work” and “You will accept accomplishment but refuse the process” and I wonder if it’s true. Am I refusing my process? Do I just not want to do the work? Am I just being lazy and a whiner? Is it REALLY that hard? I don’t want advice. I don’t want people to tell me to keep pushing on because the light is near. I don’t want people to feel sorry for me. I don’t want people to tell me that it’s okay to feel this way and that one day it will get better. I just want to process. I’m tired. I’m warn out. I’m ready to just quit, give up. I just want to be done.