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.
-even this will not hold me up.
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.