I have always used writing as a form of therapy. Whenever I felt sad, putting pen to paper was second nature – pouring all of my thoughts and feelings out felt cathartic. But these days, everything I write sounds awkward and stilted – it comes out cold.

I have felt the struggle of writing for months now, never quite sure how to articulate how or what it was I was feeling. Now more than ever do I feel that cruel pinch as I sit in front of my laptop, tears rolling down my face and unable to put in to words the hurt I am feeling.

The truth of the matter is, I am not a writer anymore. I am not a blogger. I am not a photographer. I let my hobbies peel away from me like dead skin I had to shed. I wondered if I was becoming something else – a newer version of myself with different priorities and interests. As I sit here now I understand that is not the case – I did not transform in to something new and wonderful. I just let pieces of me die.

I don’t feel like I know who I am anymore. Cannot say with certainty what I care about, what I’m doing or where I am headed. Maybe it is all redundant anyway. What I do know, is that it took a lot of hurt, to get to this place. It took a lot of breaking down, putting the pieces back together, having them kicked back down and repeating the process. I guess I put myself back together wrong. I wish I had the words to describe how frightening and lonely this feels.

Once again it is time to rebuild. To pick up my stupid heart from the floor, and to start afresh. I know there are people there to lean on, to help me fix myself. But as I spend the day in bed, heart heavy and sore, I feel too tired to even think about another remake. Too sad to wonder what I will be like in another few months. How much more I have left to lose. What else will fall away, and what will I be left with?

I am scared and I don’t know what to do. I wish this was not the hand I was dealt but it is, and maybe, after all of this, I just don’t have anything left to give.