Here's Where The Story Ends.
Here.
. . .
I'm taking time off. I'm through. I have nothing nice to say.
I'm sad. Unbelievably sad. This is where words get you. This is the price I paid. Have it.
Take all of it. After all, I've already given it to you.
I've continued to put my problems up for public scrutiny, and it's finally taken its toll. Which is what happens with everyone, eventually.
It's all interrupted by my own insecurities, and there's a good chance that the reason I'm never going to be enough is because I'm not enough for myself.
Take me off of the chopping block, I'm tired of living it down to the bottom, tired of having it out, of yelling in my mind over problems that would be avoided had this happened in "real life".
I'm the one with issues. It's me. I'm imperfect, and damaged. Me.
I'm sorry. You're not the one that's wrong.
. . .
I'm on vacation until I figure some stuff out.