How strange it is, when one who does not think that she has been hurt so badly, examines herself passively within objective mind, noting her layers with innocent curiosity, only to discover the symptoms of a dreadful scar of a wound that hurts far to much to be remembered as anything but a mere memory.

Waiting. Crying. Again. I promised myself I'd do less of it. But somewhere along the way, a series of events took place, and circumstances overrode that decision. And although these events have long passed and transformed into something more closely resembling normal, I find myself still trapped in the outer reaches of consequences.

When I tell myself to get over it, I usually do; even if I'm merely repressing instead of actually moving on. There is numbness, a twisted kind of peace, that settles inside me until I finally and actually move on.

Leave.

This time, though, things are operating differently. The default emotions, personality and regular body functions I achieve everyday are getting harder. I’m starting to lose my identity, and at times, I don’t even know how I’m even standing up.

It’s getting harder to push myself to get out of bed in the morning, harder to swallow, harder to breathe.

It’s getting harder to live, and I don’t see the reasons as clearly as I used to.

There is no power in these words anymore, no driving force; this journal is getting emptier by each entry. It no longer serves as the trigger to this particular coping mechanism.

All my life I’ve pushed myself to survive, thinking that I would happy after receiving the answer to questions. But now I wonder if there even is an answer I’d be willing to accept.

I am...

Unhappy.

It's true then, that when the mind commands the body it meets obedience; I’m but a robot, functioning out of habit. It’s getting harder, but I’m doing it.

But when the mind commands the mind, it meets resistance.

I try constantly to keep my thoughts from straying into dreaming of something I can never have, what I don't deserve. And yet...and yet I wake up feeling this phantom warmth followed by this twinge in my chest the moment I remember for the fiftieth time the utter absence of what used to be there. And even in my waking hours I dream of it. Perhaps foolishly, but it's in those minutes that waiting's sharp pain is lessened. These dreams, these fantasies, give me hope. Hope that leads nowhere. I am betraying myself.

My mind betrays me.

And what of the heart? An entity so independent that it's almost alien. It doesn’t follow the instructions I give it, and it’s beating strongly. The rhythmic pulse is acute, and I find myself tiring of it.

Giver of the kind of pain that buries itself deep inside my bones, infecting the insides with its eternal curse of reminding me exactly how everything felt. Feels.

It rarely obeys, if at all. It does not recognize the mind's authority. It knows only pain and joy. Depression and ecstasy.

Two forces - my mind, my heart working against the change I am trying to impose upon my life. Working against the message I’m trying to send, the decision I’ve made. I have nothing but the comfort my body offers - warmth, satiation, limp exhaustion, the rush of caffeine and other drugs, and adrenaline.

Is this the only kind of peace I am...awarded for all I’ve ever done, all the fighting?

Peace of the body, stillness, silence, and numbness?

I'm afraid that this is one of those things that won't simply pass through me. The decision to leave, to stop fighting and let the tide of default wave of failure wash over me. Like it should be. I’ve been fighting too long, and the enemy never tires like I do. It’s never wounded like I am, it’s razored a hole into my head, fed me it’s lies and I can’t help but let it overflow what my loved one’s say.

I don’t know what more to say, I don’t know what I’m expected to say. Do you want me to assure you that I won’t end it all the second I have the chance? The minute I find the courage, the money, the opportunity?

I can’t, and it scares me.