Is There A Panic Button?

I've been reading back on some of my posts and wow, have I been down lately. I'm talking like earthworm down, plant root down, so far down I have to look up to see the down.
And I suppose you would think its no coincidence that this happened in the fallout about a boy.

I'm begrudgingly conceding that it may have been a catalyst. No, not even a catalyst, more like a straw that was already added to the flailing camels back. A camel who has brought upon itself masses and masses of negative straws until finally this camel thought "fuck it" decided to shake itself off and take a step back and survey what the hell was riding on its back.

I've fucked up somewhere along the way. I know exactly where but i cant even fucking bring myself to admit it to myself. I can only think about how to fix it and how much of a relief it will be when its fixed, but that little voice inside tells me that something this sacred should never ever ever have been broken in the first place. I couldn't ever tell anyone what I've done.

I think thats part of the problem. This shame, this gut wrenchingly affront against someone I love dearly, stays with me until I die. No amount of good deeds, no matter if i dedicate my entire life to the needy, the poor, the dying, I will never be able to make up what i have done.

I may as well go out and dropkick a newborn kitten into an orphans face, I am that despicable.

This is worse than stealing from someone. This is worse than sleeping with someone's husband or boyfriend. This is worse than breaking the law. This is worse than death. Can you imagine how black someone's heart has to be to be worse then death? This is mine.

I wish there was a panic button on life. Where I could be faced with this dilemma again and hit that red button - take some time to think of the absolute immensity of the situation I was about to enter into and walk away from it. Instead I panicked and did what I did.

I'm not sure why I did what I did, other than due to panic. No one else I know would ever have done anything like this - If I knew they were capable of such a deed, I don't think I would want them in my life.

If I can't ever imagine being forgiven for this, how can I ever hope that others will forgive me?

So here I stay, in my own malcontent state, hoping that one day I will be in a position to fix this as much as I can, and hoping that no one will ever look past my phony exterior and see the blackest of hearts that feebly beats inside.

And while this heart exists, who am I to question whether or not I can be loved, as I love in return?

Of course he didn't write back...for who could care for one who cared so little for her own?