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The eye of the storm

    She numbed her Monday morning melancholy under the pound of her feet hitting the ground in a storm of pain and the rhythm of twenty one pilots pulsing through her veins with the words blasting in her ears; simultaneously soothing and reminding her of the harsh realities of a world in which she must never re-enter, when the truth of the matter is she never even left.
    She is treading with care. Not because she is cautious, but because it is all she is able to handle right now. And that's ok. 
    She walked through the hallway, and when asked how she was- she said she was simply "doing." Not that she was great, or well. And I am proud of this girl. Not for the mess she is, or the girl she is under the surface- because if you knew the monster that lives inside you would hate her the way I do too... but because she is beginning to realize that her brokenness is okay to recognize. She doesn't have to try and wear a mask anymore. The charade is over. 
    If there is anything I have realized recently, it is that wearing a mask is exhausting- and I don't have to. I am  not surrendering myself to this battle, and I never will. I count my personal victories in the little things such as rising and looking at the sun. I count my victories in eating a meal even when my mind is chiding me, and leaving me in the corner for my actions. I count the beauty in being able to see that I am doing my best- even if it is kind of shitty, or the victory in slowly working towards seeing my worth beyond the calories, steps, scales, sizes, and view in the mirror.
    I want people to recognize the beauty that radiates from my radiant, fiery old soul. She is fire and fury- beauty, and wise. I am the rainbow from the ashes, and I am more the monday morning melancholy. I am the evening sunset, and the rising of the sun. I am the heart of the storm- and I know that no matter the hell I feel is raging- it won't last forever. 

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