Chicago, October, 2000.
23 years old.
She told me I would have to get better.
Now that I knew what the problem was, I would have to get better.
She couldn’t take it anymore.
It had become too much.
I sat on the back porch of our apartment, smoking cigarettes and crying. I remember thinking, I can’t get better. I don’t know how to get better. I’ve been like this for too long.
Getting better would be too hard. It would take everything I understood away from me.
I knew the coping mechanisms I had developed would no longer be acceptable. I knew they’d make me stop doing most of the things I did…they’d make me stop thinking most of the ways I thought. But if they took everything away, what would I have left? I imagined being left with only a gaping hole inside.
They didn’t understand.
For me, getting better would be impossible.
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[flat affect]
Yeah
[Enter]
I feel that way on a much smaller scale when I am angry at someone. I don’t want to tell the person because then either it will be over or they can dissapoint me again… Very personal thing.
It is strange how the mind wants to keep what is fimilar to us. Even in the greatest of pain since you knew that you could only go up… you would rather have pain.