I thought I had it pat down. That I had proudly conquered the monsters in my head, telling me things I'd rather not hear, reminding me of details I'd rather not remember, of pains and hurts and frustrations I'd rather leave behind. I was wrong. I am still weak. I am still a crybaby.
And I hate myself for it, more than I hate anyone else.
She didn't hurt me. He didn't leave me behind. They didn't fail me. Nobody did. That part I managed alone: I mostly failed myself.
Once again, I didn't try hard enough to be strong enough. To be calm enough. To be together enough. I let the lump in my throat, the anger in my chest, consume me again.
And in one instant, I'm right back at square one. Right back where I've been trying so hard to run away from. Right back to pathetic little me who snaps over the pettiest of things.
I really am trying as hard as I can. But I have no excuses anymore. I've run out of reasons to pinpoint, things I can place the blame on. I've been cutting myself so much slack already, saying how there's just too much stress in my life, too much stuff I'm dealing with -- but that's not good enough. That's not ever going to change the fact that I am weak.
I am weak.
And I seriously don't know how I can get back on track. I'm sorry I couldn't be stronger for you, guys. I'm sorry I couldn't be stronger for myself.
