I've been away for awhile, up and down, up and down.
I'm waiting for a letter in the mail, one that may or may not come. I've been waiting for 23 days and it's wearing me down.
It's a letter, but it's more. Reassurance that I can still do something right, reassurance that other people believe in my abilities even if I don't.
And still more. The freedom to leave home whenever I feel like I can't live there anymore. The freedom to start a new life away from the past, a life where I can work on fixing myself without the constant daily reminders of why I'm broken to begin with.
But the letter hasn't come yet, may not come ever, and the longer it takes, the easier it is to believe that I have failed.