There’s a post-apocalyptic wasteland in my mind. Barack Obama is still president and so is Bush; I can’t get past those years.

My abusers have been on the run for years, popping up when I least expect it. Pokemon Go exists at the same time as Ingress.

It feels like The Walking Dead, with different versions of myself haunting me, desperate to call out, but all they can do is groan, groan for the time and memories lost.

For the first time, I am the protagonist and the pressure holds me down some days. The mind takes over and I can’t leave bed.

The self-love feels sharp, not warm like the abuse felt. But now I understand it’s cutting out the infection, trying to heal the festering wound. It hurts now, but one day I’ll feel stronger.

I have hope that the next cycle will come. The trees will grow again. Nature is powerful and so am I. I will rise again, not like the zombie I have been, but like the flowers pushing up from the ashes.