journey not recovery

I'm not afraid to die, but I am afraid to live. That is not what I planned on; in fact, I have already outlived myself, lived beyond what I had planned on growing up. I never saw much of a future for myself and I still do not. I was told early on that I would die or live out the rest of my life in a state hospital. I got out of the state hospital and though I've had close calls with death many times, I am still somewhat here. I say somewhat because I feel that I am existing and not living. My life is still a mess of hospitalizations and suicide attempts, frequent self-harm episodes and major food restriction. I am not convinced I want to be here. What would it mean to live? To me living is giving up. It's saying the trauma that happened to me can be healed when I don't believe I will ever recover from it. To get better from it seems to say it wasn't bad enough to kill me when it was. I do not forgive or forget. I do not wish to move on with my life as though it ...

In my disappearance I am more visible. Self-enclosed, not needing, I stare unblinking at my reflection as it fades and becomes more unrecognizable. I revisit traumas and wonder if they really existed at all. I bring myself back to the same scene over and over again. Overturned, struggling. Intrusive. Bleeding, I make pain visible in order that I may see a truth. My body translates for me where words lack. I watch my limbs shrink in, find myself in the spaces around them, become negative space. I know I am badly failing at survival but it feels like the only way to live. I wait to fall farther. All I'm left with is an emptiness, a powerful sense of loss.  I tear apart my life looking to find it and now my time seems almost up. I am still a five year-old child, just knowing she has to get away from the body, the scene of the crime. Hospital girl, in files and hallways, waiting always. Waiting for doctors, waiting to get out, my life is a series of waiting rooms. There is no end t...