en--route
en—route:

I don’t even know how to make personal posts without prefacing them with an awkward picture anymore.
I haven’t really been actively posting much lately because a lot is going on and I didn’t quite appreciate logging on to “go kill yourself” and besides I just have too many feelings for this blog.
So yeah. I’m student directing Kindergarten and doing school work and praying that I’ll make it to adulthood.

I’m awake even though it’s 4 am. I’m starting to recognize how dangerous this is, and I’m promising myself right now that this isn’t going to become a regular thing. It can’t. 
This was just over two years ago. Nails bitten down to the quick. Staying up way too late. John & I were just friends, Portland wasn’t even a thought in my head. I honestly can’t even think about the absurdity of the “go kill yourself” messages. I look so… god, I don’t know. I look at this picture and I see a shell. I see someone who could barely get out of bed every morning. A person who wasn’t eating, who was incapable of taking care of herself. 
I just want this to serve as a reminder that recovery can happen. It does happen. It happens in jerking leaps and bounds, in setbacks and long streaks on quiet unmoving. I haven’t fixed everything, but I have moved past letting my illness and my past destroy me. I am destroying it. And you will, too— one day, if you haven’t started already. But if you’re still here, I’d say you’re off to a great start already. 
So chin up. Things do get better. I promise. 

en—route:

I don’t even know how to make personal posts without prefacing them with an awkward picture anymore.

I haven’t really been actively posting much lately because a lot is going on and I didn’t quite appreciate logging on to “go kill yourself” and besides I just have too many feelings for this blog.

So yeah. I’m student directing Kindergarten and doing school work and praying that I’ll make it to adulthood.

I’m awake even though it’s 4 am. I’m starting to recognize how dangerous this is, and I’m promising myself right now that this isn’t going to become a regular thing. It can’t. 

This was just over two years ago. Nails bitten down to the quick. Staying up way too late. John & I were just friends, Portland wasn’t even a thought in my head. I honestly can’t even think about the absurdity of the “go kill yourself” messages. I look so… god, I don’t know. I look at this picture and I see a shell. I see someone who could barely get out of bed every morning. A person who wasn’t eating, who was incapable of taking care of herself. 

I just want this to serve as a reminder that recovery can happen. It does happen. It happens in jerking leaps and bounds, in setbacks and long streaks on quiet unmoving. I haven’t fixed everything, but I have moved past letting my illness and my past destroy me. I am destroying it. And you will, too— one day, if you haven’t started already. But if you’re still here, I’d say you’re off to a great start already. 

So chin up. Things do get better. I promise.