the way I feel could best be described by a monologue from the made for TV movie…

Or just a poem:

I forbid myself from thinking,
I forgave myself for dreaming,
To focus on my pain.
I waken what’s been weeping,
I wrestle what’s been wailing,
But I feel it just the same.
No better now,
No closer to how,
And too fragile to touch.
Just need to move,
Like I have something to prove,
But I honestly don’t know how much.
A fine piece of china,
A constant reminder,
Of exactly what I’ve become.
Scared of being broken,
And not noticing I AM broken,
Makes it harder to overcome.
But I forbid myself from feeling,
I cut off the revealing,
I hide down in my cell.
I need to break out,
But I can’t move without,
A drink from an empty well.
I get tied up in thinking I’m fat,
Wondering how I look in this or that,
And let that distract me for a moment.
But underneath the distraction,
Is a needed overreaction,
Or is it merely a cry for commitment?
Committing myself TO thinking,
Committing myself TO dreaming,
And focusing on my pain,
Wakening myself and moving,
Pushing myself and proving,
That only I can effectively gain,
That only I can effectively change,
That only I can rearrange,
That which I see,
That which is wrong with me.

And no, I am not THAT upset. Just poopy days. Ah, you know.