“Just when you think it can’t get any worse, it can. And just when you think it can’t get any better, it can.”

― Nicholas Sparks, At First Sight

It’s spectacular the way life carries you around, always afloat yet barely breathing. We are stronger than we realise because even when everything is crumbling, we wake up every day and hope. We hope it gets better, we hope we find love and, we hope we make it home. After years and years of doing the same Jazz, you wonder if it ever gets better. And my answer always is that, yes, it does. I can’t tell you when and I can’t tell you how. But what I know is, as long as it doesn’t get better, we are still a work in progress. And I can only pray that I too believe these words as I write them down.

The first night you came over, I ditched my friends to come and see you. And after that, around the clock, you were always my top priority. Everyone and everything else came second. Maybe I knew how important it was to seize this moment because it wouldn’t last forever. It didn’t. Luckily I still have my friends to fall back on. I just really miss you.

Why do we think by keeping everything that weighs us down to ourselves we are doing a favour to everyone else. As they shouldn’t be upset over the messes we’ve made.

Would you love me despite being the sad shit-show that I am? Would you bother to see all my scars and ask me where it hurts? Would you want to know why I cry myself to sleep and what calms me? Would you be here when I need you? not just today, but everyday? Am I asking for too much? Do you think a person this broken could love you too, the way you deserve?

Don’t expect me to ease your pain, by telling you it’s okay because I won’t. It’s not okay, never was, and never will be. 

When I say I love you, do you think I mean it?
When I say I love you, do you think I’m sure?
When I say I love you, do you think I as in me and you as in YOU.

It’s terrifying how badly I want to hold onto these little moments. When I know even this too, won’t last forever. Because no good thing ever does.

Foolishly giving into these temporary highs, a high-end dream that lasts an hour or two which then spurs back to reality, where life screws you over again and again.

You are a book without an ending, an impulse without a name and a home without an address.

Don’t sit by me to watch me as I cry. Don’t ask me to talk and then get mad at me for not talking because I can’t find the words to say or because my throat closes up every time I try.

We are both hurting the same. You can’t fix me because I can’t fix you.

Sadness doesn’t even do justice to the pain I feel inside me.

Everything is a lie.

You know, maternal love shouldn’t be determined by how you are as a person. It is supposed to be there. And if it isn’t, nothing you do could change that, and even if it did it won’t be long-lasting. I’m tired of searching for my place in the world. I don’t think I belong here.

And this is why I will never have children. Motherhood is a scam.