i'm not a bad person. i am not. i don't care if i feel like i am. i'm not.
i'm tearing myself apart for no reason. i'm harshly critiquing myself for every second that isn't spent on betterment. i'm judging myself based on rules that i made up, deadlines that i imposed. why am i so good at creating pain where there isn't any?
twelve weeks. less. eight, maybe. why do i do this to myself? each passing second it gets smaller. but it isn't a real deadline. just a hopeful one. and don't lose sight of the fact that there is absolutely a part of my self that believes, "well, maybe eight weeks is enough time. maybe it is doable. maybe, soon enough, you'll be a person again, and you'll feel like one too, and you'll touch other people and laugh and talk."
maybe. maybe eight weeks. maybe eight months. who knows. right now just think about getting to tomorrow.