For the record

Sometimes I really just want to scream and lay in the middle of the floor on my back and cry and cry and cry and cry like I'm five years old.

I lie to myself more often than I lie to everyone else.
I say: I write because it helps me make sense of the world.
I say: I write because it's how I let things out.
I say: I write because it heals me.
I say: I write because once the words are out, they're off my mind.
I say: lies.

After I've written something, the world is a mess.  I can't think straight and words are all jumbled together.  I'm terrified of collapsing in on myself because I build up this persona with my words.  And they're just words.  They don't do shit.
They make things terribly complicated in my head because they never leave.  I'm haunted by my own words.  Whether I say them or not, whether I write them or not, they constantly buzz around my head, confusing me.
And it doesn't help that writing doesn't make things better.  It doesn't make me hurt any less.  It doesn't help me find any sort of answers to anything.



And what I hate the most,
what really makes me want to act like I'm five,
is that is used to.

And lately, I've been hung up on used to.



So, if only to put this somewhere where I will have to look at it again and force myself to stare at it:
Stop fucking staying in the same place.  You have to leave.  Get out.  Run.  Run as far and as fast as you can. Straight and fast.  Get the fuck out and never come back.  Stop picking at scabs and opening old wounds, you're going to get an infection.  If you don't leave now, you're going to hate yourself.  Leave, babe.  You miss that girl you used to be, yeah?  Well, she would have fucking left ages ago.
SO LEAVE.