Truth Be Told

It's not everyday that I lose my cool and air all my business online. Yes, I know that I currently maintain four blogs and you should totally stop judging. But the reality of it is that I tell all my business to you. The chosen few who have decided that I can, at times, be entertaining.

I try to keep my internet and real lives from bleeding into each other too much. Which should explain why I was surprised that she knew my name. The Scropio's girlfriend, I mean. She knew my name.

I've been angry with him for months. Not because I can't trust him;  I already knew that. I've been angry because of all the lies. I'm naive enough to believe that if I give you license to sow your wild oats you should have no cause to spew falseness. Because even though I agreed to having string-less encounters, I never expected to be lied to. I should have known better.

Her name is Abrielle. And the 25th would have been their one-year anniversary. Would have. It's such a sad phrase. She came to me because in a fit of anger I blasted The Scorpio for being the "lying, cheating son of a bitch with no respect for anyone including [himself]" that he is. And I did it on Twitter. She saw it and wondered what would make another woman, a simple friend from high school, so angry.

So she messaged me and asked if we could talk. I'll be honest with you. Based on our brief encounter months ago, I was expecting to be yelled at by a gold-tooth-sporting, bra-less, God-less cretin . What I got instead was a kindhearted, soft-spoken, wounded, professional woman in search of the truth.

I told her that how he and I dated four years ago and that he cheated on me throughout our relationship. I never told any of you this, but none of his friends knew we were dating. They thought I was just another harlot in his harem. And if you ask him when he and I broke up, he'll give you the wrong story.

I told her how he tweeted me in February, how we had an easy-going dinner where he swore he'd never done any of the horrible things to me that he was admitting having done to past lovers. Then we started sleeping together in March and it continued through late May.

I told her how he called me by her name.  How that inspired an even bigger fight between us. I told her about being at his football game because he asked me to. She remembers the bet. He was smart enough to tweet about it.

I told her how I asked why he was still worrying with her. After all, she was just an ex that wouldn't let go. Someone that he had tried to block on Twitter but one of her suitors was feeding her information from his time line. I told her that he painted her as a wild woman who showed up at his job and attacked me online for no reason.

I told her how he would be in my house, on my couch with me while texting her. I told her how I asked him outright if he was sleeping with her while sleeping with me. I told her that he said yes.

At first, I'm sure she didn't believe me. Or at least, didn't want to. What woman wants to be on the phone with their boyfriend's lover? But it's hard not to believe someone with a vivid memory of the 13 weeks that they allowed your boyfriend into their bed. It also helps that I put a good bit of it on the internet for the whole world to peruse and explore.

I knew that every truth that spilled from my lips was a knife to her heart. But I couldn't stop. Not because I wanted to hurt her but because I wanted her to choose for herself. Abrielle has a right to know the truth and to make her decisions from that knowledge. No woman, no human being, deserves to be manipulated for another person's gain. Whether that gain be financial, romantic, or, simply, time.

There were some things that I kept from her because I was ashamed. I didn't tell her that I was jealous of her because I wanted to be validated in my righteous indignation. I wanted to be the wounded one and instead I was inflicting the pain. I didn't tell her how I cried the night I finally accepted that he'd been lying to me and that even the things he said then were more lies. I didn't tell her how he spoke softly and said that he was only trying to protect me. That he had hoped that one day I could find it in my heart to forgive him. (That's a quote.)

I didn't tell her about his half-birthday dinner where we talked about love and life and future. I didn't tell her that, at times, I thought that maybe he and I could start again. I didn't tell her that he swore that once upon a time, he had tried to show me that he loved me everyday.

I've been cheated on before. And I've been used in another man's scheme. Neither feels better than the other. They are both equal villains. I'm not ashamed of the role I've played in Abrielle's life and I'm not proud either. I'm sad that I was used to hurt her so deeply. I'm sad that it took me four years to see what I should have realized in three months.

I'm not going to 'thank' The Scorpio for being a douche canoe because he doesn't deserve it. This isn't something he should be proud of. But I will say that this time the  bridge has been doused in kerosene and set ablaze. And that's finally the truth.

The Beginning

Its day 1 on our journey to settle my grandmother's affairs. You'd never believe the amount of work that goes into settling another person's affairs.

There's life insurance, power of attorney, releasing the body, meeting with funeral directors, choosing between burial or cremation. And that's just the beginning.

We've taken phone calls from my great aunt accusing Mom of telling the doctors that they can only talk with her. There was the phone call from my aunt saying that my uncle (their brother) had already raided Grandma's apartment for the things that "he bought so he can take back" if he wants.

Now, we're finally packed. Mom and her hubby have hit the road. I'm still in the rental lot waiting on my car to be detailed. It smelled like marijuana when it was returned. I demanded that they correct that. The last thing I need is to have that smell emanating through the window during a routine traffic stop.

Nat, April, Rebecca and I will start our journey early tomorrow morning. I'm hoping to get most of the way there with everyone asleep so that I can focus on the road. I've never wished more fervently for something to be a dream.

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My Greatest Fear Realized

Today is February 11, 2011.

It's approximately 9:25AM and I've just been told that my grandmother has died. My mom is a wreck and my sister is unreachable.

I've sent an email to three levels of management and Human Resources and I'm numb. I feel like I'm not allowed to lose it because Mom is not holding it together and Nat doesn't have the capacity to deal with the intensity of it all. So that leaves me pick up the scattered pieces, brush them off, and try to glue them back together.

My selfishness is glaringly obvious to me. All I can think about is myself. How abandoned I feel by the first person to love me exactly the way I am. How I'll have to drive 6 hours wearing sweats and dark sunglasses just so I can deal with the shenanigans of family. How I don't have anyone to be strong for me like I have to be strong for Mom and Nat.

I only ever asked God for one thing: to let my Gramma see my first born child.

People say there is a God. That He walks with me, that He talks with me, that He calls me his own. People say that faith is the substance of things hoped for and the evidence of things not seen.*

I'm reading a book right now that tells me that this world, our world, the way that it is is not at all the way God intended it to be. That He doesn't cause our pain and sorrow to bring us closer to Him. But rather that He has given us all the same freedom to decide on our own what path in life to take.  That he waits patiently for the day when we are ready to open our hearts to live in Him as one in a circle of love, trust, and respect.

It's hard to feel the love. It's hard to give the trust. And I'm finding it even harder to muster the respect. As the days of my life go by and I continue my own countdown to the end, I find myself continuing to ask God why. What good can come out of so much pain? And how can He expect me to find love - especially for Him - when all He wants is credit for what is good in me and my life? Why? And everywhere I turn, everywhere I look says only one thing: Because He said so.

That may be good enough for you but it's not enough for me.

I know I'm not the first to experience pain or suffering. I have witnessed torture and trauma worst than anything I've ever felt. That doesn't bring me any amount of comfort.

Written February 11, 2011 at 10:45AM

The tears are falling sporadically as I write or breathe or think. Nat knows now and I'm trying to distract myself with thoughts of hot food and warm slippers. I'm trying not to think about a world without my Grammy in it. A world where her landlord has given us 10 days to clear out her stuff and make it appear as though she never existed.

It's 11:45AM and Nat and Mom are both home. Mom quit trying to work over an hour ago and Nat texted me saying she just couldn't focus. But I'm still here plugging away. Trying to make sure there are no loose ends while I'm away next week. I've only told one person that my grandma passed. Hopefully, no one else will find out until they read this. My closest partners think I'm taking a much needed vacation. They've noticed how high-strung and disagreeable I've been lately. Thank goodness I didn't tell them when I was on meds otherwise they'd know the reality behind the change.

I'm thinking of my mom crying her eyes out. Those deep, gutteral sobs that are the true expression of immeasurable pain. I think of Nat asking me three times if I were sure that it's our grandma that the hospital pronounced dead - as if they'd make an error so large as to notify the wrong family. And then I think of the email I drafted to my boss. Here it is:

"I just received word that my maternal grandmother passed at approximately 9:00am this morning. My mother is holding up as expected but anticipates completing her work day. These events could cause me to leave unexpectedly today.

I do, however, request permission to leave work at 3p today so that I may pick up my sisters from after care.

Naturally, I’ll require time off to assist in making travel and funeral arrangements to Maryland. I will keep you updated as events unfold."

It's a tad cold, don't you think? Maybe not cold but definitely distant. But it's exactly what I was feeling at the time. Very factual and analytical. These are things that happened. This is the result of those events. I hope I have your support in this.

Am I cold? Am I distant? Does my lack of tears mean that I loved her less? Does my need for distraction mean that I'm trying not to cope? Is it wrong that I can only think about the will that never was? Or all the resistance I encountered when I pushed for its completion.

Am I a bad person for already having a car rental arranged? That I'm prepared to do all of the driving? That I've worked out the prepartion schedule that will start at 3:30 today when this will post and I'll be on the road to my mother's.

Am I sadistic for having played out the war that is likely to ensue? The one that declares that it is possible to steal from the dead if they didn't want you to have anything.

I dread going back to this place. To see the oh so familiar faces of Satan reincarnated. Those that judged me for having the audacity to live my life apart from them. The ones who squatted in my great Aunt's home and were upset that I demanded that they buy it legally. The Aunt who tried to throw herself into my great-grandfather's grave when he was being lowered into the ground.

Them. Why do I have to see them?

12:45PM

It is painfully obvious that I am in no way working. But I'm damned sure not going to leave until I have to.

It's 2:15PM and everything is almost entirely sewn up. My boss has asked me what I need for the third time. And everyone else thinks I'm going on an impromptu vacation. I did get some things accomplished but I won't lie and say it was much.

In 45 minutes, I'll be in my car alone and I'll finally be allowed to cry. Really cry. Then the healing will begin.

*Hebrews 11:1

Pieces

Last night I poured my heart out to a friend. I had to because the words were close to bursting out of me like a broken dam. I'm not good with spoken words. At least, not when it comes to feelings. I have hurt people's feelings with a joke.

The topic of our conversation was trust.

How do you know who to trust? She's worried that I don't trust her but I do. It's other people I don't trust. Other people who lie to your face and cheat behind your back. People who do things out of malice simply to light a spark that they hope will engulf your world in a burning blaze of drama. People who have so little to be thankful for in their own lives that they can't leave other people's lives alone.

My friend was right. I should have told her as soon as I found out. I shouldn't have hid it from her. She always knew there was something under the surface; I don't hide things well. And I would have if I had known how. But I didn't. I wasn't going to give an ultimatum. And I wasn't going to defame another person based on my opinion. So I decided to do nothing. Which ultimately was the wrong decision.

I spent eight years of my life in a whirlwind of persistent drama. New cities, new schools, new friends... every year. After all of the girl fights and fist fights, I am purely exasperated with it all. I don't have room in my life to take on someone else's drama. And at this stage in my life I would hope that I am past that.

I'm not sorry that I chose to say nothing. I'm not sorry that things have been said and done that cannot be unsaid or undone. I am sorry that someone used my friend's intimate knowledge of me and my life to drive a wedge between us. I am sorry that people come into your life that can't be trusted. But mostly I am sorry that the only way this person feels whole is to tear others to pieces.

So Ungrateful

I used to get depressed during the holiday season. There seems to be nothing for me to get excited about. Last year, I sat in my mother's house completely forgotten and this year, I spent the whole weekend stressed about everything. I know that I should find a way to be thankful. I know that I should spend more time focusing on the good or at least trying to make things good but I struggle with that in ways I can't make you understand.

My mother has never been the one to take control of anything. She does it on purpose. If she doesn't take control then she cannot be considered responsible for things falling apart. The problem with this is that she will not allow anyone else to take control either. She relishes in the role of "helper" which would be helpful if she didn't insist on doing everything her way.

I do take orders well. I tend to follow processes whichever way they are designed. My mother struggles with these things because she doesn't like being told what to do. She also wrestles with the idea of not always knowing what is right or best for someone else's life. This weekend I endured constant badgering about my relationship with the Scorpio. It resulted in me yelling at the top of my lungs that she should let it go because it's. never. gonna happen. Just never.

She told me that I needed to take notes on Nat's current relationship stressors because I would find myself saying these same things when I finally found someone. I, not so kindly, informed her that I would never take notes from Nat and that if Nat had any sense she wouldn't take any queues from mom. I also reminded her that I have lived with three different men in my life and managed to keep all of my stressors from her because she is always less than helpful.

Like the time this past summer when I was dogged by a particular group of friends. While I sat there at her kitchen table crumpled over in tears, she gave me one pat on my left shoulder. Her advice? "Don't cry. There's no point in crying. Now you can stop hanging out with them and find a group of people that are worth something. I never liked them anyway." This came complete with that half-hearted, half-assed, all-condescending pat on the back. I remember it feeling so cold that I wished she hadn't bothered to touch me at all.

She went on about my drinking, my cooking, my baking, my control issues, my dog. She demeaned my career path and how I went about finishing my degree. She called me ungrateful for walking away from a scholarship that "[someone who is not my mother] fought very hard to get for [me]. For what? A boy? Heh". She relentlessly gave her opinion on topics of which she has no knowledge and made me wonder in earnest why I bother to come around.

This was all put on hold briefly when I received a phone call from my dad. He was working all day. Our talk was brief and she wasted no time telling me how sad she was for me because it seemed like he really wanted a relationship with me before and now it had been reduced to almost nothing.

I hate this time of year. With Thanksgiving, my birthday, and Christmas coming in such rapid succession, I feel exposed to more ridicule and back handedness than any one person should have to endure in a 30 day window. Am I wrong in thinking that it's ok that I don't get the one thing I requested for my birthday? Everyone knows what I need but when you ask what I want, I'll tell you. What I don't expect to hear is, "Well, if I get you that it'll be for your birthday and Christmas". I don't expect to hear that because no one else in the house has to hear that. No one. Ever. I've watched her give away netbooks. In September. Just because.

I don't know what I'm trying to say. Scratch that. I do know what I'm trying to say. What I'm saying is that I hate my family. There have been many days when I've prayed that I could start over. I spent a good chuck of my life trying to get married so that I could legitimately have a family of my own. I know that I can't make them better people and I can't yet walk away. But when the time comes that my promise has been fulfilled, I'm gone. I did it before and my soul was never more at peace. I hate the feeling of being bound to them. More than you know.

Day 8: A Photo That Makes Me Sad or Angry

Imagine this:

You're out in the middle of a field. You have no idea where you are or why you've been brought here. Inside, you're hoping praying that someone will find you and save you. Even though you have no idea what's about to happen, you can feel in your soul that it's not right.

The car door swings open and you are pulled from inside. All around you is black. You think to yourself how fitting the night is. Evil always hides under cover of darkness.

Someone is holding you by the back of your neck. You struggle but you can't get away. And then, they do it. They slide the noose over your head and dangle you for all to see.

This is a description of a picture so horrendous, so disturbing that I refuse to put it on my blog. But please believe that this picture does exist. It is of two teenage boys of non-caucasian decent, flipping off the camera while dangling a small Japanese Shin from a noose. There was a campaign to find them and bring them to justice. Unfortunately, I can't tell you if that ever happened.

No More Jive Turkey

My grandmother raised me. She taught me to walk, to talk, to potty, to cook, to eat, to pray and to love. I remember racing across the room to jump in her chair and declare myself the winner (she let me win every time). I remember every silly superstition (don't split poles with people you love!). I remember every family tradition (always take a broom, a dollar, and a loaf of bread to your new house). I remember every secret recipe (rice pudding, anyone?).

I remember her holding my hand and walking me to school. I remember her helping me with my homework, mostly by reading the instructions out loud. I remember every after school treat. I remember her teaching me about love, life, and morals by way of "The Young and The Restless", "The Bold and The Beautiful", and "Another World".

I remember the late night conversations about boys. I remember the hand-written letters and personally selected cards. I remember every hug and every encouraging word. I remember how often she told me that I made her proud.

I remember when she got breast cancer. I remember when she chose to have a double mastectomy. I remember caring for her that whole summer. I remember the way she cried when she tried to thank me aloud. I remember the hug and kiss were enough.

I remember how hard she worked to care for her father at the end. I remember how frail he looked, how weak he was, and how hard she cried when he finally died. I remember walking with her to his grave every year to take him flowers.

I remember the day they took her driver's license. I remember the day I noticed her hair was all gray. I remember the first time I saw her fall. I remember having to convince her to leave her home so she could be somewhere safe.

My Gramma is dying and the thought that there won't be anything else to remember is too much to bear.

Wailing and Gnashing of Teeth

Anticipation is a weird emotion. I would even call it bi-polar. One minute it’s getting you primed for the first kiss. You know the one I’m talking about? It’s the one that you are sure is going to change life as you know it. Next minute, it’s got you thinking you’re about to die because you leaned back too far in your chair.

That’s how I’ve been feeling for about a week now. I don’t know what to call it. Anxiety? Stress? Depression? Oppression? But I know what it’s trying to do. It’s trying to take me to a scary place where nothing in my life matters and I just wish I had the guts to kill myself because I’m worth more dead than alive anyway.

This morning on my way to work, I had a panic attack. It was triggered by sirens. And I was in traffic. On a bridge. All I could think about was how my car was parked behind a dozen others and that I was going to die. Here’s a brief clip of what went through my mind.

“What’s that noise? Are those sirens? Where are they coming from? Are those lights behind me? How are they going to get through here? I can’t pull over I’m against the yellow line! Oh, Dear God, please save me! *the bridge begins to vibrate under the weight of the three trucks on it* What’s happening? I need to get out. *Hand on door handle* As soon as these cars stop coming, I’m outta here. When are they going to stop coming?!? I can’t stay here! *tears flowing* I’m going to die on this bridge. Why won’t the shaking stop? Why aren’t these cars moving?!?”

I am in hell.

It’s my own personal hell. You can’t go there with me because it’s inside my head. It torments me with promises of failure and abandonment. It lures me into its gaze filled with memories and bill collectors. It taps against the door of my sanity with a consistent rapping. Sometimes, when I’m brave enough to look up, I can see it peering through the window smirking and sneering.

The pressure is overwhelming and I feel as though it could envelope me at any second. Some days are so dark that it feels like the sun will never come out again. It’s like living your whole life at night under the cover of darkness where anything can happen to you. Periodically, I’ve had small glimpses of light. Like when Ethan called yesterday. But then he said one thing that made it slightly gray again. Or this morning, when I heard a song that reminded me of him and his antics. Singing the song brings the sun but finishing it, knowing that the moment is over, makes the clouds roll in faster than before.

All I can think to do in these moments is cry. I cry because I feel weak. I cry because I feel alone. I cry because I’m afraid that if I ask someone to help me that they will diagnose me as crazy. I don’t want to be crazy. I can’t be crazy. There’s a stigma that comes with crazy. Especially if you’re black. When you are black it is a universal truth that you cannot be black and: a. gay, b. date outside your race, or c. be crazy. I already date outside my race and get tons of crap for it; I know I won’t be able to handle the pressure that comes with a triple throw down.

I know that others have noticed. I figured it out years ago. They look at me, talk to me, and regard me differently. I wonder what it is they’re thinking and how I make them feel. The words I hate hearing most from my brother are, “I’m just glad I could make you laugh”. It kills me a bit each time he says it. I’m sure he doesn’t know he’s doing it, but what it says to me is that he can hear my pain and that it worries him. I don’t want him to worry about me. He has so many other things to focus on; he shouldn’t be preoccupied by my troubles.

I wish that someone could tell me the words to say that would make all of these negative feelings go away. I wish that I knew what makes me different from the people with a generally positive outlook on life. I wish I was ready to come back to blogging funny anecdotes and the goings-on of my life for you. But I'm not.

If you do need a pick-me-up after this blog of dreariness then please go here and here. Perhaps, here or here. But only here if you like it super raunchy.

I miss the happy me so much right now. I'll try to bring her back soon.

Some Time Away

Inner Monologue:

"Your life is a mess. Look at you! Your hair needs to be done. Your toes needs re-painted. Your legs need to be shaved. We won’t even discuss the state of your apartment. All this is a manifestation of what’s going on inside.

I know that you’re not really tired. You’re feeling sad and perhaps a bit lonely. Yes, you miss your family and no, things aren’t the way you want them to be but checking out is not your best option. Buck up, kiddo! Things will get better.

Remember how you promised yourself that you would never sit still and you would never look back? Remember how we discussed that the longer you wait the faster time moves on without you? Don’t lose hold of these promises. Don’t waste time looking back. You can’t change things that have already happened. Let’s not lose anymore time than we have already."

**You should know that, on Sunday, I slept in my bed for the first time in over a week. Instead, I slept on the couch using my guest blankets because they still smell like my family. I’ve been using the guest bathroom for the same reason.

I know it sounds weird and may be a lot wrong but it’s what I’ve needed to keep from falling completely under. I can feel the depression tapping on the windows of my soul wanting in. I’m scared because I know that if I do fall all the way in, it’ll be a long, hard journey out. And last time, I needed professional help.

I’m going to take some time off to work on me.

Try to miss me while I’m gone.

My First Letter to You

I wish I could tell you about all of the great things that happened over Christmas but that would be farcical. So much went wrong. And I feel like a total whiner and Debby Downer but I can't walk around with this on my chest anymore. So, I'm writing a letter to the only person that will hear me without passing judgment or offering advice and sympathy.

Dear Baby,
I know that you're not here yet and the entire concept of sending you a letter could be perceived as ludicrous, but I need to tell you some things and make you some promises. The first thing I want to say is that I want you more than my next breath of air. My whole life I've imagined what you would be like and how you will grow. And it may seem silly that I continue to wait but it's because there are some very important decisions that have to be made for you that only I can make.

The first is who your father will be. I want to get this right, Baby. I can't tell you how hard of a decision this is turning out to be. Because no matter how much I want to hold you and love you and make you feel special, I need to know that the man I choose will make you feel that way too. I'm looking for the man that wants you as much as I want you and I promise that you'll know when I find him.

I promise that you will grow up in a house filled with respect and love. Big giant helpings of it. I won't make you feel afraid to fail or make mistakes. Instead I'll teach you how to get up and how to push on. You will never feel like your worth is tied to what you can do for me. I will never put the burden of our family's survival squarely on your shoulders. You will never worry about your next meal or where you will lay your head.

I promise that you will grow up with traditions. They may not be huge like an annual scuba diving vacation or celebrating Christmas in Europe. But there will be something that you can carry with you your whole life. That one thing that you know will always be there. I want that for you. The security of knowing that if all else fails this one thing will still be here when you wake up.

I promise that you will not fear me. Because you don't gain respect through fear but through compassion. I'm not saying that you won't get in trouble or be reprimanded when wrong. But you will know that I'm doing it to teach you and keep you straight. And you will receive my love and support more than you receive my anger and frustration. I plan to smother you in hugs and kisses, to curl up under blankets watching movies, and teach you all the life skills I had to learn on my own.

I promise that no matter how far you stray or how long you're gone that you can always come home. I will leave a light on so that you can find your way back. Because I know that I can't keep you from getting lost and I can't stop you from going your own way, but I can sit on the porch and be here when you get back. And I always will.

I promise you that at the end of a hard day when everything else has gone wrong, you can sit and tell me all about it. I might tell you what I think about the situation but I won't be mad at you for your choices. I will let you speak. Let you free your mind. I will be your sounding board.

And finally, I promise you that even if I make all the wrong choices for you; if I choose the wrong man to be your father, the wrong name for you to live with forever, the wrong school district for you to graduate from, if I never buy a house for you to come home to, if the whole world burns down to the ground around us, you will always be first in my life. There is nothing and no one that can take that away from you.

Baby, sweet Baby, I promise all of these things to you. And I can only hope that they are enough to get us through. I'm still so excited for you and can hardly wait until the day that we're together.

With All My Love,
Mommy

Most of Them Missed It

The big day - my birthday - has come and gone and this is how it went. I spent the day before wondering if anyone would remember. Some did and sent me wishes early. I was elated to not have been forgotten.

On the actual day, I got obligatory phone calls from family and a couple from friends, but it was the birthday visit that really made me smile. My bestie, Mrs. G, came over and spent some time with me. It was a blast and I was reminded of why I love her so much.

I'm on a few social networking sites. More for the networking aspect than the social one. But with as many "friends" as I have, I honestly was expecting some unsolicited wishes. Now, that may seem silly to you. It seems silly to me, but thus is life. I did get a few wishes. Five to be completely honest and only two, I feel, were heartfelt.

But the worst part is that my sister, Natalie, didn't extend a birthday wish. And neither did any of my going out friends. None of them. Not one. After seven years of knowing them and celebrating every party-worthy holiday under the sun, none of them felt the need to pick up the phone, tap out a text message or even post a message on my social pages.

Nice.

Heavy Sighs

I wish today felt like a holiday. I want to be happy. But instead I feel this gloom inside threatening to overwhelm every second of my existence. It is not for lack of accomplishments or unrequited love nor for deep-rooted lonliness. No, I mourn for things unseen. The inevitability of future and the consistency of change. My soul cries out for time to stop turning. And in doing so, only wastes the precious morsels. The pain eminates from my belly and radiates to all those around me. The tension and self loathing is palpable. I need it all to end. I beg for it to leave me be. Because as long as it hangs around I feel as though I am a burden to all who know me. Which causes more pain. I would never want to be a burden. But I dont know how to stop.