***in place of one mis-titled***

I had something distressing and depressing happen yesterday. I found out my friend Amanda does in fact know about my manic indiscretion with her "baby daddy"; of course I also found out she is not speaking to me, a cutting off I had hoped wouldn't happen, the indiscretion something I had hoped she was unaware of.

But nope. On and on it goes. I continue to discover my losses in layers. I continue to struggle with guilt and shame. I continue to be forced into learning to apply coping skills I don't really think I have even developed yet. I continue to get knocked on my butt every time something reminds me of something hurtful I did when extremely ill this last time manic, some memory is uncovered, something dreadful I have to try and work through is put in front of me, even if only in my own mind, for certainly it is unforgivable in the mind of others and therefore isn't anything to be worked through at all by them: it is simply, painfully, and sometimes stubbornly what it is: Julie's hatefully immoral and purposefully, chosen action. Something to eternally despise her for. Something to cut her off for. Something that demonstrates her true character, that slut.

Every time I look out my front door and see their house I am reminded of these things, the loss especially sharp, for my Amanda was my best neighborhood gal-pal. And OF COURSE she cut me off! Who wouldn't? But there are others whose situations with me aren't even remotely close to this who have made the same judgments, and it stings. A lot.

I have broken myself by bringing this up, dammit. There were so many other things I wanted to talk about, other threads I wanted to explore. But I can't right now. I'm sorry. Is it selfish to need so much comfort and support from you? To run and hide once the truth is out?