Sometimes I Hear My Voice

At times I wonder how long it will be until I can tell my story. There are aspects that no one knows – that I wonder if anyone will ever know. There are aspects that maybe one person know. And it’s scary – it’s scary how easily I put walls up, how easily I retreat inside myself, how easily I hide. It’s scary watching my health fall apart, watching my life fall apart.

It’s scary having diagnosis after another pile up and just feel so freaking HELPLESS as everything falls to pieces. It’s terrifying to watch my mental health shatter and so badly want to do something, but I can’t. It sucks wanting a dad again, wanting someone who’s not an epic asshat to protect me, but knowing that’s not possible.

I think that’s what’s killing me the most lately. I want a Dad I can call and tell him how poorly my health is, a dad I can update on the antidepressant situation. I want a Dad I can tell that I made homemade pizza for supper and then had a glass a milk. I want a Dad I can tell I’m being referred to yet another specialist. But I haven’t had that since 2005 and I’ll never get that back. AND IT’S NOT FUCKING FAIR.   

Why can’t I have a Dad, too?

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