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  • Time elapses and then you look back at where you were. A year since my infidelities, over two years since I stared back at open wounds.

    But then: one day since I told myself I was a worthless piece of shit. Just over a month since I wanted guts on the floor and bloody hand prints on the wall. Hours since I clenched my temples and locked my jaw.

    In the years since the incisions, I've learned the source of the urge to cut, and of my fear and embrace of unadulterated rage. I had hoped that discovering the sources, the cast of characters, would lead to the mitigation of their effects. In a way, it has – no new scars, no new head trauma.

    But these scary fucken slides – these Sunday nights when I'm on the verge of calling my therapist and instead, I call a former lover, or two friends in other states (January and March, respectively) – I don't know what to make of them.

    A teacher's teacher's teacher's teacher is quoted as having said, “Every time I fail, I try to love myself a little more.” This floored us audience members.

    I told my therapist this quote; I've told her other things from my martial training, one of the few areas of life where I on occasion find myself confident. Each time I tell her this, she asks if I can draw upon the centered feeling I have in training and see if I can't apply it to my life. To date, it's been a string of failures, without the self-love chaser.

    Time elapses and you look forward in the hopes of seeing where you're going. It's hard to count your victories – where's the fun in a happy ending?
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