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“I really don’t want to write this anymore. I’m tired of my story, the parts of your story I know about and reinterpret through my own experience and our story as viewed through the filter of my limited experience and 12 to 28 years of hindsight…

I’ve ended up in the place where my entire existence is hanging by a thread and all that I can manage to do is sit in one place and chant Fuck, I don’t want to be here. Fuck, I don’t want to be here. Fuck, I don’t want to be here. Fuck, I don’t want to be here. Fuck, I don’t want to be here. Fuck, I don’t want to be here. Fuck, I don’t want to be here. Fuck, I don’t want to be here. Fuck, I don’t want to be here. Fuck, I don’t what to be here. Fuck, I don’t want to be here, and if I stop I will surely fall off the edge of sanity and break into a million shards of razor sharp glass on the floor.

If the story doesn’t end there, it will surely end with you commanding me to get myself together and clean this mess up because it was all my doing and all my fault. If the story doesn’t end there, I will lay there until I can’t take the guilt and shame of not having myself together in front of you and I will start to collect myself one shard at a time until I can make something that moves out of that place. I will attempt to glue myself back together away from your judgmental gaze. I will try to keep the lights low and the meeting short the next time I see you so you can’t see the cracks and the gaps that the glue wouldn’t cover. ‘The subterfuge won’t last, but at a glance’, I will appear to be normal from a distance.”

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