I recognize my need for this is less. I didn’t imagine this point. When I told myself I’d give myself until spring, that felt fruitless. It wasn’t. I’m not the same as I was when I started this. And there is still more to do. There is always more that can be done, but how much this plays a role has shifted. It is no longer the crutch it once was. I will keep pressing this. But this was never for you. I deliver, fueled by my need alone. It was always for me. But I will continue to pressure as if more can be pulled in the interest of my highest deliverance. However, I know I am reaching a point where action must be taken.
Only so much can be done in the mind alone. I have deliberated, I have processed, and I have let go, but I have yet to live. I’m not done yet; there are still more threads left to clear out, but I always knew this would only last until I either succeeded or gave up. The document of my survival. A place for pain and process. This is no place for a person. A person lives, and now that I know these words won’t die with me, here they will reside, and here I will leave. I am not my pain; these writings are not me, but this is that which I’ve left behind.
The molting of a past. The shells of pain. Anew I am born.