seven year anniversary

seven years is seven too many.

I am already a mess. I’ve been a mess for seven years. For a long time I thought I had achieved acceptance and moved on with my life. But as I have been journaling over the past 8 or 9 months (however long it’s been) I’ve realized just how much baggage I have been left with. I still struggle with bulimia, cutting, and depression. They don’t consume my life anymore, but every day is a fight to stay positive and in control. Ironic since the bulimia and cutting developed as a method of keeping control.

And sometimes I am still so angry at him and at everything and everyone. Because I didn’t have to turn out this way. But in the end, I am never angry at him. I am angry at my mom, and my family, and the school counselor who told me everything I was experiencing was a stage in the grieving process. And I am angry at myself for not being stronger. People experience and cope with ten times worse than this every day and end up functioning perfectly normally.

I just…hurt. Everywhere, inside and out. But never enough.

I love you Daddy.