The morning after relapse you find yourself drowning. Feeling like a soiled dress, ironically ironed perfect, waiting to be worn again. The morning after relapse reminds you of the oh-so-many ways things could go wrong, could turn bleak. Did go wrong, did turn bleak. Could swallow you whole into a never-ending spiral of doom, or worse. In the morning after relapse there are no ways to express pain, or guilt. It all just builds up into grief and anger, but mostly rage.
The evening after relapse you start questioning the whole of your sanity, the poor worn out stitches keeping the fabrics of your soul from falling apart. Where did the hours go? It felt like yesterday when you seemed born again, ready to take on the rest of the world. Where is that girl, the one that had promised not to be Gomer? The one that was loyal, brave and true like Mulan – she probably would’ve ended up a true Gryffindor, and you might as well be one of those traitor-like death eaters for all you know. There are dozens of rules to uphold and they only told you one thing: be good. Well, what is good and what is bad? What is dark magic, where does one stop and the other begin? How are you supposed to understand so many things? You are, after all, only twenty-two. What a lame excuse for a sinner, you object.
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seasalt memoirs 