Dearly Beloved.

I have always liked being inside.

Being indoors, in a room, in a small room, in my bed, between my pillow and my plushies, cuddled up-

-I felt safe.

I still do. I close my eyes and feel safe having as many things around me as possible. I collect things. Endless, infinite collections make up my world. My little insecure world.

But now-

-even this will not hold me up.

I’m scared.

I’m fucking scared.

For months I kept swallowing and swallowing the tears when they came up to my eyes. You know what? Crying did not, does not and will not solve anything. But I got so fed up with myself  that-I’ve been in a constant fight with me since June.

This is it.

This is my limit. I have to throw up.

I have to throw everything away.

I’m so sick that I can’t think straight. My mind is elsewhere. Always. I can’t focus anymore with all of this beside me. It’s fucking turning against me.

The pain is no longer bearable.