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The Journaling of MacDonald 436
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just because things could’ve been different it doesn’t mean they’d be better
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“You can’t just hope for happy endings. You have to believe in them. Then do the work, take the risks.”
—
Nora Roberts
(via purplebuddhaquotes)
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“When we stop judging others and ourselves, our heart begins to open. The way to healing is to learn to love and accept ourselves unconditionally. It means to embrace both our positive and negative sides with love… Healing happens when we bring everything that we find inside ourselves out into the light.”
— Swami Dhyan Giten
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“Are you becoming what you’ve always hated?”
—
Charles Bukowski
(via purplebuddhaquotes)
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I feel like I die and come back to life every single day
When I rest my head, I think of the sideways crescent moons stamped under your eyes
I think of the stretch marks running rampant across my abdomen. Not because I’m pregnant, more so just eating carbs because I’m no longer feeding drugs to my body.
I think of the keloid scars on your chest and your shoulders and my forearms.
I think of all the broken people I have met. All the real, raw pain that I have uncovered in the lives of others. The ones I’d stay up with night after night, drug induced conversations where I peeled back their barriers like layers on an onion. Each layer hiding behind another until I’d reach their core. And behind all the chaos, behind all the love and all the goofy half smiles there it was; the sole common factor we had was that we weren’t afraid to die, but quite the opposite, we were afraid to live. We were afraid to feel. And God, did it hurt. Why we existed in each others misery and created our own turmoil, is something that I can’t accurately explain. What I do know is that we didn’t want to live that way. We just didn’t have a clue that we didn’t have to.
I think of the times I was 16 and my psychosis was so bad that i’d take a walk at 3 am and lite 7 cigarettes in a row just to burn them into my flesh.
Or that time when I was 17 waking up in a pile of my own vomit, swallowing fifteen times the dose of my sleeping pill, wondering why the fuck I didn’t die. My dad shaking me awake and helping me stumble to the bathroom. Him, too drunk to understand that I was screaming for help. Me, too lost to know how to tell him I was dying.
I think of the men I ran to whenever I wanted someone new to die with. It was always a choose your own adventure, but I always chose to do things that caused me pain. I always chose men that hurt me because they were hurting, the ones who were just as disturbed as I was.
Fuck.
And now here I sit, recovering but maybe not really. Because I’m terrified of what comes next.
I’m terrified of every single friend who’s going to die at their own volition, because of a disease that is trying to kill them.
I am terrified of love
Of pain
Of existing some days
But I am.
I exist.
And I don’t know why.
And I’m not sure if I want to sometimes.
But in those two beautiful words are endless possibilities that I’ll never be able to close my eyes to again.
I am.
And what an inconceivable thing that is to be today.
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