I feel...weary. Old, in a way. There is a difference in ago of the body and age of the soul. My body is young, but my soul feels weighted by lifetimes of sorrow, of clouded joy, and centuries upon centuries of trial after trial. My heart feels like something that has been broken and repaired too many times to really tell what it was fresh out of the factory.

I feel like I've been used, a bit. Not by one person in particular, although there are a couple that come to mind immediately, but by the masses in general. I feel like I've been put through an old school washer ringer, and then hung in a gale force wind for a decade or two.

I want to keep my self in the way that I want to be. But I feel like these trials are bringing out that scary kind of bitchy, the one where my temper is held by a silk thread and I never know when its going to snap and what will happen when I snap out of the fit. ...My temper scares me when I'm like this, when I'm riding the killing edge. Every instinct that I've pressed down and down and down comes roaring back to the surface and I can't stop...I look at people and imagine eight different ways to kill them, to hide the body and create a grave no one will ever find. And then it passes and I can force my face to smile, and carry on.

But I'm waiting. For that snap, that clash of power.

I want to remain gentle, and inquisitive and kind. I want to remain that deep placid lake, the woman who laughs easily, if softly, the one who can be anything anyone wants.

But its only a mask, and only now ａｍ　Ｉ　ｂｅｇｉｎｎｉｎｇ　ｔｏ　ｕｎｄｅｒｓｔａｎｄ　ｔｈａｔ．　　Ｏｎｌｙ　ｎｏｗ　ａｍ　Ｉ　ｃａｐａｂｌｅ　ｏｆ　ａｔｔｅｍｐｔｎｇ　ｔｏ　ｒｅｃｏｎｃｉｌｅ　ｂｏｔｈ　ｓｉｄｅｓ　ｏｆ　ｍｙ　ｎａｔｕｒｅ，　ｔｈｅ　ｇｅｎｔｌｅ　ｓｏｕｌ　ａｎｄ　ｔｈｅ　ｖｏｌａｔｉｌｅ　ｂｉｔｃｈ．　　

Ｉ　ｎｅｅｄ　ｓｏｍｅｏｎｅ　ｔｏ　ｇｒｏｕｎｄ　ｍｅ，　ｔｏ　ａｃｔ　ａｓ　ａ　ｓｔａｂｉｌｉｚｅｒ．　　Ｉ　ｄｏｎｔ　ｍｅａｎ　ａ　ｒｏｍａｎｔｉｃ　ｐａｒｔｎｅｒ，　ｂｅｃａｕｓｅ　ｔｈａｔ　ｄｏｅｓｎ’ｔ　ｗｏｒｋ　ｗｅｌｌ，　ｂｕｔ　ｓｏｍｅｏｎｅ　ｗｈｏ　ｃａｎ　ｒｉｄｅ　ｏｕｔ　ｍｙ　ｔｅｍｐｅｒ，　ａｎｄ　ｈｅｌｐ　ｍｅ　ｌｅａｓｈ　ｉｔ　ｂａｃｋ　ｗｈｅｎ　ｉｔｓ　ｏｖｅｒ，　ｈｅｌｐ　ｍｅ　ｐｉｃｋ　ｕｐ　ｔｈｅ　ｐｉｅｃｅｓ　ｏｆ　ｍｙｓｅｌｆ．　　Ｂｕｔ　ｆｏｒ　ｎｏｗ，　ｔｈｅｒｅ　ｉｓ　ｎｏ　ｏｎｅ．

Ｉ’ｖｅ　ｍｅｓｓｅｄ　ｕｐ　ｍｙ　ｂｏｄｙ　ａ　ｌｏｔ　ｌａｔｅｌｙ．　　Ｍｙ　ｍｅｔａｂｏｌｉｓｍ　ｉｓ　ａｂｓｏｌｕｔｅｌｙ　ｓｃｒｅｗｅｄ，　ｓｏ　Ｉ　ｍｉｇｈｔ　ａｓ　ｗｅｌｌ　ｔｏｓｓ　ｉｔ　ｏｕｔ　ｔｈｅ　ｄａｍｎｅｄ　ｗｉｎｄｏｗ．　　Ｉ　ｃａｎｔ　ｅａｔ　ｍｏｒｅ　ｔｈａｎ　ａ　ｆｅｗ　ｂｉｔｅｓ　ｗｉｔｈｏｕｔ　ｔｈｅ　ｕｐｃｈｕｃｋ　ｒｅｆｌｅｘ　ｋｉｃｋｉｎｇ　ｉｎ．　　Ｉ’ｖｅ　ｄｒｏｐｐｅｄ　ｆｏｒｔｙ　ｐｏｕｎｄｓ　ｗａｙ　ｔｏｏ　ｆａｓｔ　ｔｏ　ｂｅ　ｈｅａｌｔｈｙ，　ａｎｄ　ｈａｒｄｌｙ　ａｎｙ　ｏｆ　ｍｙ　ｊｅａｎｓ　ｏｒ　ｓｋｉｒｔｓ　ｆｉｔ．　　（Ｙｅｓ，　Ｉ　ｄｏ　ＯＣＣＡＳＯＮＡＬＬＹ ｗｅａｒ　ａ　ｓｋｉｒｔ）　Ｉｎ　ｔｈｒｅｅ　ｍｏｎｔｈｓ　Ｉ’ｖｅ　ｄｒｏｐｐｅｄ　ｔｈａｔ　ｍｕｃｈ　ｗｅｉｇｈｔ．　　Ｉｔ　ｓｃａｒｅｓ　ｍｅ　ａ　ｌｉｔｔｌｅ，　ａｃｔｕａｌｌｙ．　　Ｉ　ｆｅａｒ　ｔｈａｔ　Ｉ　ｍｉｇｈｔ　ａｃｔｕａｌｌｙ　ｇｅｔ　ｄｏｗｎ　ｔｏ　ｗｈａｔ　Ｉ　ｗａｎｔ　ｔｏ　ｂｅ．　　Ｉ　ｄｏｎ’ｔ　ｔｈｉｎｋ　ｔｈａｔ　Ｉ　ｗｏｕｌｄ　ｋｎｏｗ　ｗｈａｔ　ｔｏ　ｄｏ　ｗｉｔｈ　ｍｙｓｅｌｆ．　　Ｉ　ｍｅａｎ，　Ｉ’ｍ　ｓｏ　ｕｓｅｄ　ｔｏ　ｂｅｉｎｇ　ａｔ　ｍｙ　ｆｏｒｍｅｒ　ｗｅｉｇｈｔ　ｔｈａｔ　Ｉ．．．ｗｏｕｌｄ　ｈａｖｅ　ｔｏ　ａｄａｐｔ．

Ｅｈ．　　Ｗｈａｔｅｖｅｒ．　　Ｉｆ　Ｉ　ｗａｓｔｅ　ａｗａｙ，　（ｄｏｕｂｔｆｕｌ，　ｂｔｗ）　ｔｈｅｎ　Ｉ　ｗａｓｔｅ　ａｗａｙ．　　Ｉ’ｍ　ｎｏｔ　ｔｅｒｒｉｂｌｙ　ｉｎｃｌｉｎｅｄ　ｔｏ　ｃａｒｅ　ａｔ　ｔｈｅ　ｍｏｍｅｎｔ．

Ａｎｄ　ｌｅｔ　ｍｅ　ｊｕｓｔ　ｒｅｍｉｎｄ　ｙｏｕ　ｇｕｙｓ　ｏｆ　ｔｈｉｓ　ＯＮＥ ＬＡＳＴ ＴＩＭＥ　ｂｅｆｏｒｅ　Ｉ　ｆｉｎａｌｌｙ　ｄｒｉｆｔ　ｏｆｆ　ｔｏ　ｌａ　ｌａ　ｌａｎｄ：

Ｄｏｎ’ｔ　ｅｖｅｒ　ｌｉｅ　ｔｏ　ｍｅ．　　Ｉｆ　ｙｏｕ　ｄｏｎ’ｔ　ｍｅａｎ　ｓｏｍｅｔｈｉｎｇ，　ＤＯＮ’Ｔ　ｓａｙ　ｉｔ．　　Ａｎｄ　ｉｆ　ｙｏｕ　ｓｔｏｐ　ｍｅａｎｉｎｇ　ｓｏｍｅｔｈｉｎｇ，　ＳＴＯＰ ｓａｙｉｎｇ　ｉｔ．　　Ｉｔｓ　ａｋｉｎ　ｔｏ　ｓｅｅｉｎｇ　ｙｏｕｒ　ｂｅｌｏｖｅｄ　ｈｏｍｅ　ｏｎ　ｆｉｒｅ　ａｎｄ　ｒｕｓｈｉｎｇ　ｔｏ　ｐｕｔ　ｇａｓ　ｏｎ　ｉｔ　ｉｎｓｔｅａｄ　ｏｆ　ｗａｔｅｒ．　　Ｉｔ　ｗｏｎｔ　ｈｅｌｐ　ａｎｄ　ｍｉｇｈｔ　ｍａｋｅ　ｔｈｉｎｇｓ　ｍｕｃｈ，　ｍｕｃｈ　ｗｏｒｓｅ．