There are a lot of thoughts swirling in my mind right now.

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Reading the last post made here almost exactly a year ago is hard. I can feel it in my tone, the unraveling that had started much longer ago but was beginning to seep through. My deep sadness I could not mask any longer. My deep need to be seen and heard and only feeling neglected and left behind. I can see it now, the ways in which my actions silently cried for help, for someone to reach out and touch me.

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It began to implode in October. My inner world. It unraveled. That plate I had written about so many months before, I was the plate, ready to smash into a million tiny pieces. By the end of November, there was no hiding. Smashed. Bashed. Obliterated. I had come undone and everyone could see it then.

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I held out hope. I thought a miracle would happen. A cosmic super glue would sweep in and fix it all. Restore it. Make it new. I could be that shining example people love to hold up and say, “See, they fixed it, they were restored.” Instead, January rolled around and everything ended with one small sentence, “You don’t see me.” I’ll never forget that feeling of utter abandonment I felt in the moment those words slipped across the table to me as I sat in a puddle of my own tears. It felt like a hammer driving me into the ground, dead. It all died for me then.

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I say it all died but even I know that is a lie. Hope is a terrible thing. It can hold on and linger far longer than you want it to.

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That life I had was never the life I wanted. This part of the story is one I would have never written. It was not what I wanted for myself, my sons, my story. I suppose that is all the good stories, you would never write yourself into the tragedy section, but that’s what makes the stories good. The parts that take everything you knew and loved apart and build it back new. I’m in the rebuilding stage and it’s painful.

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It’s raw.

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It is filled with beauty.