In four months and a week I would have been another year older and I hope I would have changed for the better. You know it’s getting bad again when you fall back to old habits, the ones that drag you into that never-ending dark spiral. Nothing feels right. The work weighs down and the grief overwhelms. Triggers pile up and explode. BOOM! Hands go numb and head goes wild. Tears fall and heart stops. Am I dying? I can’t breathe, I’m suffocating. I want to be eating borsch in Moscow with no burden of the world. To be the freezing girl who spilled sparkling water on the way to Teriberka, bright and vibrant and alive and beautiful. I don’t want to be stuck in failed January sevens. I just want it to be easy. I just want it to be easy. I just want it to be easy. I just want to be held and to be loved. Unconditionally and constantly and securely. I just want to be loved in all of my undertones. And now I understand why all fragile men, at the very end, come running back to the Father’s arms. We all just want to be held, after all.