I have decided to write in a diary again. I'm approaching this with a little trepidation. It was rediscovering my old journals that put me in a downward spiral of remembering and relapsing into the eating disorder. I never thought that would happen, for old ghosts to revisit me. I had forgotten it all.
All it took was a quick peek. I had sunk that chest of memories to the bottom of the sea. It felt safe. The weight of that pain made sure it stayed there. But I thought that if I just looked a little I would be fine, because it had been so long. I ended up swimming down every night, drinking more and more poison from that cup each time. Until one day I realised I had drowned. I am still drowning.
I reached up for help. I stretched out my hand and my surrogate mother grabbed it, held me for a while. Then she let go. It must be exhausting when the one you are dragging up the shore wants to stay in the ocean.
Somehow it feels a little safer here.
I had spent years on land, I managed to build a life there. I now have a family of my own, children to care for. But I keep being called back, as if the dark deep empty is where I truly belong, or deserve to be. What was I doing trying to belong with everyone else?
I deleted all those diary entries, spanning a decade, from when I was fourteen through to twenty-three or -four. That's what she said to do, so I wouldn't find myself in deeper shit. It worked to an extent but I'm still in deep shit. I guess at least I'm in therapy. I have to make it work this time around, and for good. I cannot be in my thirties and still be dealing with this shit.
Lately I have found comfort in creative writing again. It feels good to make something that vaguely resembles art, out of this horrid tangle of pain. I don't know if I will really ever show anyone these things I have written, but in my fantasies I bind the pages containing my poetry and some prose, into a book. I hand them to my surrogate mother. It will detail the pain I went through when she never thought to ask. She will cry at the guilt of leaving me at a time when I needed her, to contain me, to listen to me.
My real mother will never see this imaginary book.
I haven't spoken to her in months. She does not get the privilege of hearing about my secrets or my innermost thoughts. She will die thinking that she never really knew her only daughter. Maybe that's for her own good. Maybe I should visit. Maybe seeing me like this, losing weight, clearly back in that dark place, will hurt her more. I do not know if that is what I want. I have not decided yet. Maybe that is why I have avoided her. I cannot decide if I want to hurt her or spare her feelings.
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