Ris' journal

2019. This is the year I search for joy within myself and the year I learn my worth. This is the year I push through my anxiety. Everything will change, it has to. I will live this life of mine. 2018 was the year I decided on ending my life. 2019 is the year I grab by the horns and say, "fuck me up." Because God, I want to live. I want the good and the bad. I want it all. My hands are wide open and firm; my arms stronger than ever before and I'm so ready. Show me everything I fear and teach me how to love it. Teach me how to love this body of mine. Teach me how to hurt and heal. Teach me patience. I have so much time now. I've never had so much time.

May 14th, 2018 You see,  When I get "sad," it's not a breakdown in the shower or my heart sinking from disappointment. It's being surrounded by all of the people who love me and still imagining how hurt they would be to attend my funeral. To think they could've done something different to save me.  When I get "sad," I drive. To nowhere in particular. To no one in particular. I put on the Smiths and baptize myself in my tears. I think of how strong the guardrails are on the bridge and if I would regret plowing through them.  I don't want to be me anymore. I don't want to scream at myself to put the scissors down. I don't want to go out to the bars pretending that just moments before I wasn't plotting how to kill myself. I just don't know how to be happy anymore.  But I'm trying. Fuck, I'm trying.

You asked me that night why I would choose to love you. You asked me why I would put myself in that position to be hurt. You see, you believed that the pain of love out-shadowed any positive thing that could come from it. I told you that all the good that came from love would always outweigh the bad for me because in that moment, I couldn’t imagine lying in someone’s arms who weren’t yours. I was wrong. Because it’s been months and I still grab my chest at night trying to breathe because you stripped every ounce of joy I had ever felt right out from under me. I was foolish for loving you. You were foolish for thinking I chose to.

Of these things, I'm sure. You're stubborn and prideful. You don't open up to anyone. You joke when you're nervous and you ramble when you drink. Your laugh is contagious and your skin is warm. You look best in red and you introduced me to incredible music. Of these things, I'm sure. I love you. You won't let me love you. Of these things, I'm sure.  I opened up to you in ways I've never opened up to anyone. I've hurt myself in ways I've never done for anyone. Because of anyone. Of these things, I'm sure. You're sad. And I love you. And I know you're not responsible for other people's happiness and I know you think you're not good enough for anyone. But I love you. Of these things, I'm sure. I miss you. I don't think I'll ever stop missing you. You're still here. But you're not. Of that, I'm sure. And I still love you. I love you. I love you. I love you.

I think I've lost myself. That's one thing you can't take from me. I can't lose myself loving you. I just can't.