It’s been a while since I’ve hurt myself on purpose. I’ve grown in the time. Learned to love, and learned how to deal with additional loss without falling apart. Today, however, I felt the first stirring of fear that I would return to my old ways. My boyfriend and I broke up on our sixth month after he watched me cry about my family (one of only two times I’ve ever showed that lack of control) and didn’t stoop to comfort me, merely walking away. Literally. My father asked me how to help him with staying dry and I had no answers, only wistful caterpillars burrowing in my chest.  Addiction has always been strong in my family and dependency stronger still, but through the years I spent battling depression I had always thought of myself as being stronger than all of that. I had willpower that kept my muscles working long after I shouldered the burden of the world. Now, however, I am weak. I love living and I love feeling good but I am a poet by nature and I feel things so strongly that sometimes my emotions overwhelm me. Secretly, that is. And now, secretly, I harbor wounds that stretch miles back into my hurt childhood and feel a depth of despair that makes me anxious for the distraction and penance self-injuring seemed to bring. What can I do when there is nothing I can concievably change in my life? Is it my attitude that needs a remedy? I want to keep my scars white and my chin up so badly, but it’s not easy… even after almost two years.