Last week I would have been 6 months pregnant. I only had 3 more months at that point and I've been filled with anger thinking about it. I've been breaking things around the house. Smashing CDs with saved photos. Throwing out yearbooks, photo albums, and scrapbooks. I've hidden all my schoolbooks and pastime literature in closets so I don't see them. I don't know why I do some of these things, but I do know I want no memory of my life right now. I keep telling my husband I want to live in an empty house with bare white walls. The sight of personal belongings suffocates me. So I've been cutting up my favorite clothes to get rid of them. My husband has now hidden the scissors on me. But it doesn't matter because whatever I throw out doesn't take away the pain.
Sometimes I think I'm being ridiculous. Or that I'm going to regret how I'm acting later on. That it could jeopardize my marriage or lead to larger emotional issues. But a part of me doesn't care. I'm just not ready to be me.
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