Yesterday was gutwrenchingly brutal. For anyone who cares.
I realised that to the world, my life is just a book.
People can pick it up anywhere. They can read a line, a sentence, a paragraph or a chapter. And throw it away if it doesn't interest them. They can disparage it, mock it, laugh at it, ridicule it. They may even identify with parts of it. But in the end, they close the book and put it on a pile of other books, to end up covered in dust and cobwebs.
Perhaps one day, they may pick it up again and remember and wonder. "Whatever happened in her story?"
Most people never will.
Lately, many people have closed the book on this particular chapter of my life and that is so hurtful. Many of those were people who swore they'd stay the distance with me in this particular hell of a chapter. My experience in life told me this wouldn't happen and thus it has come to pass, again.
Thing is, I can't close my book, yet. I could, but suicide is not yet an option for me. My cat needs me. My son loves me. Two reasons to keep going, no matter how bad it gets. And believe me when I say, I know how bad it can get. I really do. From my own story and that of my friends.
So if I'm not up to reading your books right now, forgive me. Forgive me for being shallow and selfish and wallowing in my own despair and anguish. Forgive me if I haven't 'got over it yet'.
For me this chapter is not over.
This book is not yet finished.