It feels like time has sped up, stopped, warped, and slowed to an unbearable pace. All because we dread the 31st arriving. Since our last post nothing has changed: we’re still avidly distracting when we can, still internally spiraling while riding the waves of grief. It’s suffocating. It feels like all the wires are crossed again. We’re regressing socially, in and out of nonverbal episodes. I’m catching Tommy popping up more and more, usually after the head hitting starts.

All of the Littles inside are devastated. What few persecutor parts there are keep hissing and sneering about attachment. Protectors shouting about how when you love someone, you take the risk to be hurt willingly. And we loved them. Not as family, or friend, and certainly not in any romantic capacity. We loved them as Human. It still shakes us inside recalling them asking us, “you don’t think I love you? Or that [fiancé] loves you? Or [ex-friend] loves you?”

We wept so much that day. We still have to battle the whole narrative about not being enough. It’s why–tackling narratives I mean–we’re not leaving therapy, much as the idea of a new therapist sends many of us into hiding. Yet, somewhere amidst the pain is a knowing they too must grieve. I am so tired lately of running. From everything. I yearn for rest, true, real rest.

Hopefully tomorrow we can begin writing again. If anything, some effort is better than none. But by the Gods we’ll miss them terribly.

-A blend of sorts