I scrapped the idea of Nick last year. The man never showed up. I was begging him to save me, to help me get back on track. I spent all my wakeful hours on him and my job, failing to feed myself anything but waffles. The girl dying of malnutrition/starvation would eat nothing but waffles. And syrup.
And then one day, I threw it all away. The Universe told me there was a kinder, gentler future for me. I saw it in a vision of sorts, I guess. I walked the line between reality and fantasy, envisioning so many portals to enter and finally selecting one, seemingly at random. When I strode (limped) through that portal, I had no idea what was on the other side. But it didn’t matter: I was on a spirit quest. A quest for love. Love of myself, if not the love of another.
I’ve not fully achieved that goal, even now, nearly a year later. It’s tough to swallow that: the unstoppable force I had come to be was meandering in circles, like a leaf on the surface of a pond, disturbed by a fish taking a bite of insect to eat.
Maybe I should learn from the fish and eat insects, but I didn’t have to get that desperate. My intuition began to guide me to making healthier choices, ditching this and that terrible food product.
If I knew Christmas 2019 what I know now, I would have resigned a whole hell of a lot earlier. I tried to restore myself as valiantly as I could, but my health was in terrible decline. I could not perform my duties anymore, which pains me to admit let alone deal with the consequences of. I may as well have committed suicide by this point; my career is in the toilet with no hopes of ever getting the best job I’ve ever had back. All my assets are gone/frozen because of everything happening around me, to me, because I became too ill to function. The man I proposed to in exchange for the ‘husband work’ it’d take to make me less ill ghosted me. My friends and family became turncoats. I am utterly and completely alone.
I literally cannot eat enough variety to have a well-balanced diet. It hurts too much. Eating food hurts. Everything hurts, really. All of me, I mean. I’m tired of being in pain. After seven or so years of constant pain, ramping up and up and up, to the point where if I pinch a nerve I say, ‘My, that’s uncomfortable.’ That is not the norm, now is it? I can make myself go to blackout pain and what do I say? ‘Watch this!’ to my inner child before I torture myself to the point of seeing stars in my vision. All because I know after I pass that point for long enough, the body will instantly forget what it felt like. It creates a certain euphoria.
Nothing I do ends it.
I need help before I expire and I have no one to turn to because the medical system has failed me too consistently for too long.
And yet, I still move forward. The Universe beckons to me. ‘Come along, child, just walk this way. I have a plan for you. I have an alternate reality to dump you in, it’s just a little further still.’
Maybe I just delude myself. Maybe I don’t.
What do you think?