I usually consider myself as being pretty together, pretty seamless to the outside world - a tough nut to crack. But this has been a terrible week with some things that really broke my suppression down, and all of my pain came boiling out in therapy, if only for a minute. Must have surprised my therapist, because she has only ever seen me cry a little in the months we've been doing our thing. I wish I could scream more often instead of smiling so much all the time. If I hadn't been stopped in the middle of freaking out, I think I would have started demolishing her office furniture next (after I finished attacking myself). I had lost all sense of myself, you know, like that blackness that swallows you and "you" just go away. In a way, it's a relief when it happens. I wish that "I" would just stay away. I don't want that sorry excuse for a real person, and neither does anyone else.

They don't know the immensity of what they ask.

I don't think anyone realizes how many chains and locks I have on all the stuff I keep inside. Not even my therapist.

How much more will it take? When will I be deemed to be "ok"? Satisfactory? Worth their acceptance and love? Nothing is ever enough. Hope is cruel, because it never delivers - even when fed with action.