Figures

 Coming back to you, baby

This was a year of health - or the lack thereof - and now it's got me at the end of my mental capacity, truly. It's getting dark in here.

If you're on the outside, looking in, I'm sure there's not a single thing you can find amiss in my life. As my mom rightly points out, many people would swap lives in a heartbeat. Here I am thinking of it finding a way to end, one way or another.

None of it seems to stick. It was a year of battling perfection and we're standing in August and I'm sinking. In the monsoon rains, In my thoughts of inadequacy. In my incoherent dreams (nightmares?)

I don't want help. I'm actively blocking it out at this point it seems. None of it works, not for me anyway. I don't know how to customise it for me. A way which is consistent, not heavy on the pocket, unique, but not restrictive, one that is tailored, one that is mine, but supportive, one that facilitates, one that is... non-existent. 

Days I cry, nights I hold them in. I'm the image of perfection for everyone except the one in the mirror. Happy, smiling, supportive. Lies. Queen of deception, overworking, illness, and excuses. My father would often say to me as a kid, you either have reasons or results. I guess I have neither. 

Coming back to you baby, one broken bone and dream at a time