I once told the therapist that I decided to give it a shot because I had somehow changed 18 years ago. I’d put the bottle down and taken a new road, so anything was possible. Even change.
But now that I am nearly 20 years on, I’ve seen the sudden knife inside me come out to stab blindly, driven by a machine I have no control over.
Days afterwords, I can only hope that the people I have chosen — and who have chosen me — can still see the part of me they love, the part that is worth waiting for and being with.
Yet I can never promise them that I will ever be able to control this thing. Or that it will ever go away. No matter how many steps I do, or how many hours I sit on a couch barfing out myself onto a paid ear.
I will always be myself and that being will always be part of that self. And while there may be no center to the onion, the onion is still an onion.
It makes me wonder if there is really a point to anything at all.
Except that I know I love, too. But in this time of hurt, where is that being? Why is it not turned on to keep the knife quiet and in its sheath?
Love, I need you now more than ever.
