Words are the essence of the thoughts floating through my head (and right now they feel like destruction).

Sometimes, I sit down and reread things I've written. Rambling blog posts, bits of poetry, things I've jotted down here and there. I've been rereading the last few days. In this foggy crazed life I feel like I'm losing touch. Reviewing the words from before helps remind me who I am. A word-album of memories.

Today, the word-album makes me sad.

How long will this go on? How many times will I walk this road? Where and when will it end?

And the quiet, whispered voice in the deep part of my soul wonders: Will it ever end?

I'm on the downward swing of mental health, again. My days seem to disappear in a rush of things that must be done and I feel guilty for the time I take for myself, again. I look in the mirror and wonder where I went, again. In the middle of the night my weaknesses grow into paralyzing attacks, again. I'm pretty sure the pieces have scattered everywhere with no reason or rhythm, again.

Right now, I'm sure that I am so broken it will never be fixed. Not by me, anyone, or God. Not because He can't, but because I won't let Him. Or that this brokenness is part of my time here.

All the jagged edges of me are showing, and I feel like they're attacking my life, my friends, my relationships, my peace.

Lately, I've been thinking again about some fairly significant things that happened - so long ago - that changed my course so subtly, amazingly, frighteningly, horribly. Choices I made, choices others made. And I find myself wanting to say it all out loud. The need to say it all is so very loud in my head I can hardly hear myself think anything else. But I can't say it. If I let all these words out, I'm sure that they will destroy this life I've built around me.

For the record, I know this isn't reality. I know that the words begging for release are only words. And those words wouldn't hurt the people I love or destroy my relationships with them. But the sheer explosiveness behind them might shatter me. And so I refuse to say them, because I refuse to be shattered.

I'm thinking therapy might be in order again. It's a safe place where the words can just disperse. And if they do destroy me, I can hide the destruction inside the structure of my therapy appointment and still walk around in my everyday life.

I'm so sorry. To do this again, again, again....