Sarah 266/365

I talk about my depression and mental illness, I talk about my anger, I talk about my happiness and my frustrations, I talk about my children and not always nicely, sometimes I just don't fucking like them very much. I swear, a lot. I talk about almost getting killed and I talk about how that makes me feel, I talk through the rollercoaster of emotions that comes from almost being murdered and KNOWING that I carry some of the burden of responsibility for getting to that point. I talk about sex and it's mess and how wonderful it is, and I talk about how you don't always have to love the person you fuck and that sometimes not loving them makes it better. I talk about things that make me feel uncomfortable, because if it's scary and hard for me that means it's something I need to talk about. I talk about love and I talk about hate and I growl at you when I am mad or frustrated or flabbergasted at the absolute insanity of it all.

I talk and I talk and I talk, and sometimes it makes you uncomfortable and sometimes it makes you not like me very much, lots of times it makes you hate me, but sometimes it makes you love me. Most importantly it makes me love me and I think that out of everything else is what threatens you. Sometimes it causes problems, like a wave it touches people I wouldn't think it ever would, but I won't take responsibility for something that is not my problem because your issues with my ability to be comfortable with all my nuances is very simply not.