As for sex, the last of the great words, it was just a cocktail term for an excitement that bucked you up for a while, then left you more raggy than ever. Frayed! It was as if the very material you were made of was cheap stuff, and was fraying out to nothing. – D.H. Lawrence
Frayed. Tattered. Unraveled. Threadbare. Strained. Worn.
If there ever was a not-too-dramatic-but-still-adequate word to describe my twenty-fifth year of life, it was frayed. The quarter-century mark started with building myself back up from the depression of Lubbock and the stress of giving up on grad school. It ended mid-recovery cycle of a six-month battle with emotions and people I couldn’t control. Shit happens.
So, twenty-six started like twenty-five: a little frayed, a little worse for wear. But I’m a whole lot more than people are seeing. And I’m tired of feeling like the only one who knows it. Time
to start clipping those loose ends. I ain’t made of no cheap stuff.