flashbacks.

 Flashbacks.

They suck. Like, real bad. And they're triggered by the most random things. Earlier I was sorting through my unnecessarily large collection of jeans and found a pair of identical jeans to the ones I was wearing That Day. (NOTE: I was going through a lot of stress at the time and my weight frequently fluctuated due to my binge eating so I had duplicates of a few pairs, but in different sizes.) I loved those jeans, they were my absolute favorite. They were 90's light wash straight legs that had just the right amount of stretch. They were great work pants, comfortable and breathable even in hot weather. But seeing them and touching them reminded me of how work went That Day and then seeing ...graphic things on my legs. And looking down at them in the car seat. Trying to move my arm and leg and not understanding why I couldn't. Seeing parts of my leg I should never see; my meatbag is supposed to keep those parts inside. Funny, I had calmed down the flashback reading through my old stuff (which always works for whatever reason) but then I started writing about it and it brought it back. I guess I can let this be one of those moments where I sit with the feeling and talk to it instead of trying to shut it down. Therapist would say this is a good opportunity for that. If I don't let it out in little leaks I might explode. When I write I feel things, and even though those feelings suck it's better to get them out. Practice what you preach darling. 

Okay. I got it out, I feel better. See, short and sweet non' sae bad ist?