It was easier for me to empty myself in to the toilet bowl than face the big bad wolf of my trauma. Only one thing mattered when I was busy shoving my fingers down my throat — that I was as empty as I felt, that there was no more poison inside of me and I swear this was coping. There is a moment after you’ve finished and you sit on the cold, hard bathroom floor there is nothing, you are nothing and nothing matters in that moment. My words trapped inside of me, losing my voice from the acid tearing down my walls and letting them swell. I wish my pain would spill out as easy as tonight’s dinner. I wish I could flush it all away into the vastness of this world, wash my hands and carry on. So when the therapist tries to bring the big bad wolf into the room and there is no where for me to empty myself in, she holds my pain in her hands and tells me it doesn’t have to be like this. Sit with the pain and let it digest. The wolf will always be inside of you, he’s only big and bad if you let him be.

“I understand your grief; even time does not always heal this kind of pain.”