I worked so many hours yesterday that I got to go home at 11 today. I wrote 2 stories in an hour, they both made it in, and my editor liked them both (this is a victory, LOL). I got my laundry and dishes done. I have a full fridge, a hot pot of coffee (decaf, at this hour!), some yummy new bubble bath, a friend is coming in tomorrow (only a 90 minute drive) and we have a fun day planned, I got great news yesterday, and I was feeling really good. And then I decided to go relax with my yummy new bubble bath.

Because, you see, to take a bath, you have to get undressed. And these days, when I get undressed, I have to face what I did to myself the other day. Talk about a buzzkill.

And so the self-recrimination begins, and the eternal question pops up -- WHY? WHY did I think that was a good idea? WHY did I fricking *KEEP* *GOING*, instead of stopping at one? WHY do I have to live like this, wrestle this, wrestle the paralyzing depression, the flashbacks, the self-doubt all the freaking time, when my abuser gets off scot-f'ing-free?

I'm not going to tell you all the places I cut, but there were a lot of them, and I'm going to be staring at them, all red and swollen and scabbed up, for a long time. Eventually they'll fade, but they're there forever now, and every damn time I get undressed, I can ask myself WHY? And I'm never going to have a good answer.



Candy