348 days.

348 days since my suicide attempt. 348 days where I have felt broken. Lost. Torn apart inside by something that I cannot give a name to. But I have also felt happiness. And hope. That what was once lost could be found. Rebuilt. 348 days in which I have struggled to define myself. To create for myself what I wanted this life to be. I have questioned myself. Questioned everything I have ever known. Or thought I knew. I fought to build a foundation on the rock bottom that I was at. 348 days. Taken one day at a time. One moment at a time. One hour. One minute. One second. I thought things were getting better. That I had finally come to realize what I was meant for. What all of this was meant for. And what I was supposed to do with it. But now I find myself just as lost. Just as broken as I once was. My life has been filled with lies that I was too naïve or too blinded to realize. Like sand slipping through my fingers. Trying to grasp it, but it just makes it flow faster. What I thought I was creating doesn’t really exist. And it’s too much to take. Too much to understand. Or rationalize. 348 days. Almost one year. And I feel like I am starting all over again. What I put my belief in. What I put my hope in. Doesn’t exist. Maybe it never existed at all. Maybe I was the one telling myself a lie this whole time. Maybe I was never better. Maybe I have just wasted every second feeding myself with the belief that I could have a better life. That I could create something better from the ruin that I once was. Or maybe that I still am. At this moment, I cannot handle reflecting on my life. It is too much. I feel too much.

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