I wrote this sometime last month, and since right now I'm feeling much the way I did then, I felt it would be a good time to share:
I'm in my childhood bedroom. The ceiling lights don't work anymore, the windows stick and the air is slightly musty, but the room looks much as it did during my teenage years.
Magazine clippings, snapshots of my (very few but incredibly loved) friends and artwork I've made are taped to the walls, painted a chipped bright blue.
I'm laying in bed, writing, head resting on my hand.
The room smells old and sad. At least the stench of my ex's cheap cologne no longer lingers.
I'm so tired lately-- and not just because of my chronic fatigue-- the kind of tired that's also emotional, that keeps you awake for days on end.
I have these moments when I'm so depressed, but I can't tell anyone because I'm supposed to be in recovery.
I need someone to love, someone to love me.
I hate talking, even writing about feeling like this, but the truth is, if I don't talk about my feelings (especially the ones that arise due to my BPD), how can I rightfully expect anyone else to be open and honest about theirs?