Hey, soul sister.

"Oh THERE you are, Peter!" --Hook

Sometimes I play up the memories too much. There are others who struggled far longer and fought larger battles than I ever had to. But its a part of me. The old indentions remind me I'm real. I wouldn't trade them. But I still remember, now and then. When I need them.

Its hard to describe the absolute flammability of my pulse, the blind red before my sight lines. I could hear nothing, feel nothing, taste nothing but the lingering staleness of death and rage. My pain was being compressed, tighter and tighter, into smaller and smaller boxes, until the ice exploded and the fire ruptured in a tidal wave that couldn't be stopped. I distinctly remember looking death in the face and tentatively welcoming it. It was not experimentation. I did not deserve to live, and there was no where to take out my anger and sorrow except here. I had screamed for so long and You didn't answer. I didn't know then You were holding my hand the whole time. But no one else was hurt. No one had to know. And if they found them, the jagged, hasty reforms would tell them exactly who I am.

A half hour later I unfolded myself from the shower with finally a steady hand. The stinging on my legs left pinks droplets clinging to skin here and there. I'm not sure which is worse: the war I just fought and lost with myself, or the drowning aroma of shame that settled like clearing smoke. What have I done?

I gingerly tiptoed into my room, shut the door, and began tending to my wounds. While the throbbing was still ebbing, I arranged myself by my computer and numbed my way through cyberspace. I don't know when, and I don't know how, but somewhere along the way I stopped. Frowned. Counted my breaths. Bit my lip. And made a decision. This would be the last time.

And it was.

The dichotomy is found in the strange reasoning that mapped me to my finality. I was whole heartedly, completely, vilely, selfish. I was sick of protecting my mom. I was sick of protecting my friends. I was sick of making promises to God. For the first time in a long time I became completely honest with myself, and instead of promising not to cut again because I wanted to trust in God or help my mom not be afraid, I promised to stop because it was one of the first conscious, wholehearted promises I was making to myself. For no one but myself. And strangely, somehow, that is when I began to finally live.

Don't get me wrong. Its not that I'm trying to over dramatize anything or try to argue that carefully disguised selfish ambition is the way to go (happiness is in yourself? Um, check your sources). I still believe that Christ is the only reason I made it out alive, and He's the only reason I was able to heal later.

I'm still hiding in this dark cupboard with my back pressed against the wall. I'm keep shoving food in my mouth, trying viciously to make the anxiety stifled and numb. Then later attempting to force myself to go to the gym, because

Mom was worried

Dad was worried

No one would ever date me like this

it made for awkward conversation trying to explain it to my friends

I should.

Today, I barely made it through a test and a presentation because I was so stressed out that my hands were shaking, my breathing was ragged, and my eyes couldn't stop jumping around the room. Its like pulling teeth to get my college to let me graduate--for no reason other than failed paperwork. I don't know where my life is headed. I'm tired.

He's calling my name. I'm inching toward the door of the cupboard and crack of light. I'm grabbing the handle and coming out of hiding. I'm making a decision. But its not for you. And its not for Him.Its for me. Its because I want to. Its because its something that I want to pursue, for myself, for no other reason than the express notion that I. just. want. to. For. me.

He's the one who saved my life. I don't have to keep living like I'm dead.