Day 46. My Version Of Cutting?

I should have let my knee and my wrist more time to rest but instead the innate force of familial responsibility has overcome my soul and I went to help my mother with her garden. So three hours later, after spending that time digging up clay and on my knees digging out dandelions.

Me remembering Her is my equivalent of self-harming, cutting. My memories of Her are like dandelions, spreading their roots everywhere through my subconscious, unable to be removed without leaving pieces of themselves around and sprouting back up just when I think they are gone. One accidental glimpse of her life and I am reduced to a quivering puddle of snot and tears. How long can this torture go on? I can’t breathe, my pulse is racing so hard that every heartbeat is a deafening noise in my ears, my blood feels like it is boiling hot in my veins, my mind is on fire.

I need to stop! This has to stop!


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