My demons, real or imagined, are leaving nasty scars tonight. I am near comatose in front of the television, knowing full well I’ll pay for the lack of sleep tomorrow. When I come to bed, my subconscious whispers, then screams, all my inadequacies.
I miss Beatriz desperately. I hold out, remember her compassion. How can we love and accept others until we learn to love and accept ourselves? It’s too easy to quit writing and no one would miss me now. I’m too stubborn to. I will make something of myself. Dammit. Plans to make my life more efficient, easy enough, right?
I cannot dismiss even the tiniest element. I can make this work. I have to. Gina’s mother’s promise not to speak ill of people. I need to start there. Simple enough. Small step. Organize. Keep promises. Carefully. Slowly.