I am afraid of the person I used to be. Because what if that’s who I truly am, and the person I am today is just a passing phase, a blip on the radar. What if I really am as broken and grotesque as that girl who used to go out partying five nights a week, fucking whoever, broke and alone? And my current reality is teetering on the edge of stability and sanity, and if the winds of self indulgence blow in the wrong direction I’ll be back over the cliff again. Falling into my old ways. Being bad. Chasing anything that can make me feel like the whole in my heart has been plugged up for at least five minutes. What if I haven’t grown. What if I didn’t change. What if I’m still merely moments away from blowing all my money on Gucci bags and booze. Or, worse – what if I call him. What if I tell him that I need him. I can’t live without him anymore. What if I go back to the person who hurt me the most, and what if I like it. No – I can’t dare to think thoughts like that anymore. As I survey the life I have built without any of that bullshit, and how beautiful it is to be calm, and mentally stable, and unbothered by the abuse that I threw myself into. Wasted, sitting in the passenger seat of the car parked outside the bar, sobbing, waiting for him to come get me. No, that’s not me. I don’t do that anymore. Not because I can’t but because I’ve changed. I know better now. Right? I deposit money into my savings account every month, I eat my vegetables, I get my exercise, I go to sleep at a reasonable hour, I never get hungover anymore. I certainly don’t engage with men who whisper vile things in my ear while we’re fucking, or take my shit, or tell me I’ll never accomplish my dreams. I don’t do that. I wouldn’t do that again. Or would I?

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