All that I know is I'm breathing, now.

This isn't a pretty, uplifting, mild-mannered post. If that is what you are looking for, read one of the previous entries. This is real. And raw. And crass. And I don't care.


I woke in the throws of a gut-wrenching sob. I had a million options, but no one to call. Everyone is usually sleeping at 2:15 in the morning. No need to bother anyone with my incessant need to be validated.
"I'm failing." "No you're not." "Oh. Okay."
That's not what I needed anyway.
I needed to cry... not necessarily alone, but you really don't have many options when everyone who's shoulder is comfortable enough to soak your ever-falling tears into is asleep, or worse, at work. He wouldn't be home for hours.
So here I was. As alone as I could possibly be. Months into a recurring respiratory infection (probably brought on by my body's inherent ability to pick up on when I just want to feel sorry for myself). The coughing starts, and when it ends - climactic, neck deep in the toilet, with last night's pizza staring back at me - I'm left feeling more empty than when it started.
Not in the way you'd like to. Not rid of whatever poison is inhabiting your body, so you feel the void is pleasant and welcome.
Empty. Void of every emotion but the one that can't seem to just leave you the fuck alone.
I have many things to be thankful for, and I am.
I'm not some ungrateful shit that has no semblance of gratitude. I do.
I have this man, he loves me, and I love him, and he gives me all that I need and more, and sometimes, I feel like I really give it all back. Sometimes. Mostly I just feel that I suck everything from him. Constantly asking for more. Hold me more. Be there for me more. Make me feel better. Make me better.
How inconsiderate. How deplorable. Make me better. I hate myself.
So I rinsed out my mouth. It tasted like shame and guilt and black olives. Light on the sauce.
At this point I was sobbing again. Or maybe I never stopped. Maybe I was always sobbing.
I melted back into my bed.
This is where the world went away.
This is where I was safe.
At least, until tonight.
Tonight I faced myself, and saw how much I had strayed from the goals I had set for myself. From the bar I had set much too high. I was failing.
"You're wasting everything. You don't deserve a fucking thing."
Being chastised is no easier when the person doing the scorning is yourself. That's when you know you've really fucked up. When you've really let things go, and when it's time to absolutely get your shit together.
I curled up, my limbs pulled so close to my core that they might have receded back into my skin.
I wouldn't have noticed.
I was weeping so furiously, Freya woke up, and upon noticing this wailing thing is me, trotted over and laid her head on the bed.
I extended a hand off the side of this cocoon I had wrapped myself in, and felt her nuzzle her hairy face into my palm.
Her nose is rounded, bumpy and wet.
I pulled my head out from underneath the covers to see her staring at me. Into me.
I began to cry even harder, as if she had invited me to.
She sat and patiently obliged as I gripped the thick fur on the back of her neck, and ran my fingers along the soft backside of her ears.
I was shuddering enough to wake the other one. Juno crawled up behind me from under the comforter (which was doing no such thing) and placed her paw over my shoulder, and instead of excitedly licking my face - which she tends to do when I'm close enough for her to do it - she whined along with me, with her face pressed against my neck.
Freya, too, began to cry.
We three, separated by species and language and so many other things, were different in all but understanding. In all but compassion.
I continued to cry for what felt like hours.
My eyes were swollen when I came to, and crusted over from dried tears I must have shed in my sleep.
Juno was still pressed against my neck. Freya had since laid down, but was still positioned underneath my hand.
This is what I needed.
Not reassurance. Not a pep talk.
I needed to bawl like a fucking child.
I needed to weep as if I was grieving something lost, and it be welcomed, and -even- okay.
I needed to feel like this level of grief for my own actions was acceptable, for just a moment.
Hell, maybe that's what I was doing.
Maybe I was grieving for myself.
In everything, from birth to adolescence to now, I've lost something. Or maybe I never had it.
Depression is a terrible bitch, so it wouldn't surprise me if I was completely fine... save the off-kilter serotonin levels.
I still don't feel like myself. Maybe I'm not supposed to. Maybe this is when I'm supposed to learn how to grow, and be someone new, and actually finish a goddamn thing or two. Maybe.
...