Progress. Definitely not perfection.

I survived a flight that almost went down in the Pacific Ocean. I've had babies without pain meds. I passed a kidney stone 6 months pregnant without pain meds. I had my last rites read to me when I was 7. I tried to kill myself and survived. I was raped. Violently. I sunk into an addiction that consumed all but a very small fraction of me. Those things were hard. Those things taught me to grin and bear it. To fake it. To keep people around me comfortable. To shrink inside and get loud outside. To smother what was left of me. Getting clean, staying clean, relearning almost everything I thought I knew, rebuilding myself from ground zero is the hardest thing I've done. I feel my art again though. I'm bleeding on my canvas. I'm trying to move forward. Ask for help. Listen to the healthy voices wherever they come from. To quiet the noise in my head. I'm trying. I'm making mistakes. I'm still hurting people. I don't think I want to be who people think I am but I'm pretty certain I don't want to be who I am. I wish you could tell me who I am. I wish I could say we're having tacos for dinner and go to the store without crying in the parking lot. I wish I could remember how it feels to be happy for no reason. I wish I could know I'll be clean and happy in the future. I wish I knew which direction to go, what the right decision is, I wish I knew the right amount of selfish in my recovery. I just want.