wuthering

It is all on an account of an insecurity. That makes me want to cry. For why? - Why must I speak out of self discontented woe? For I know myself so little that I try to find my reflection in others. My words are in others. My words are their words. When I say my I mean you and when I say you, do I mean you? Who am I to make such a jest? All I want, all I’ve wanted, is a fact, a known fact of who I am to be; a fact of prosperity or at least content. When the other little girls were asking for money or designer purses, I would pray for happiness because I had already experienced a place of such deep self loathing. I never thought I would live this long. And I don’t think for a period of time that my parents or the doctors did either. I never wanted to live this long. As a child I saw my life as a dead end line of fast experiences ending in a fast way. I was rushing to the end and now that I by some shame have lived passed that rush I’ve been living in neutral hoping for a force to kick me back up again. Back again- back under. I see myself more clearly now in the mirror. Remnants of the disease of mis-figure are beginning to become a more distant memory and my reflection has cleared to show me who I am. I am the same person I hated so much when this all began. I see the same things, the same measures falling just short of what I want. Just short but far enough to never make it. I will never have a healthy mind. I feel too much of whom I am to ever have moments outside myself. I have stripped myself bare of all exterior layers and lived for an extended amount of time naked. Once you have seen yourself you can never escape what you know you did. Can I ever get out of my mind? No.
I am at a point where I can feel his hand on my body and for once I know that he can be enough. That if there is any hope for me it is outside- outside of my world of words of worlds- and he is it. His honesty is piercing yet correct. His words are sometimes not enough but just what I need. He doesn’t treat me like I thought I deserved but I find myself okay. I love him more for he sees me as a person while everyone else I know has known me for sick. I can never make him understand but on some levels I don’t want him to. I just hope with any distinct amount of will of future in me that he and I last.