I hate feeling sick. I hate it in the way that not only am I already physically ill, but even in the imperfections of my health I give myself little grace. My sides hurt as if hulahooping for days and my hair is a field of wavy, unrestful hay. I have to give up the plans I had made for my day and bitterly rest.

My faith comes and goes in waves. The train of my belief is veering but pushing forward on tracks foreign to me.

I am not in that nightmare any longer. It is different, I tell myself, as I walk through a tightrope where I cannot see the net below me (it is there).

I miss the dreams I used to have. I miss how much I used to want to love myself. I miss how all I ever wanted was someone who would take pictures of me and show me their love for me.