3,650 days

almost every day i write a new post for this blog in my head.

i talk about sad things, mostly. the sentences are short. and i try to make them poetic.

the very act of writing-but-not-writing-it-down perfectly illustrates my current state of crisis:

i am stuck between being and doing.

it's excruciating.

i turned twenty-four recently, which means it's been a full ten years of dealing with untreated depression and anxiety.

a decade of silent, fearful things.

many years of living a life that i found [still find] almost physically unbearable to live.

i am holding on to the promise of help-soon even as i cry and cry internally for all of the help-then that i never got.

i keep picturing myself reflecting back on this summer, these past few agonizing weeks. i keep preparing my words for the feeling-better-days. i will marvel with awe at how i survived such a thing. i will sweep all of this pain into piles. i will laugh and shake my head and think, i barely remember all of that, it was so blindingly bad, it's- there's really no words. and then i'll do something. and i'll do another thing. and i will be part of life again. and so thankful.

i'm waiting to say it. still waiting.