But the truth is, on the inside, I'm a porcelain doll. Like the tiny dolls my grandmother kept in her garage that I wasn't allowed to touch; painted porcelain faces, arms, feet. Soft arms, legs, bodies.
Handled incorrectly, I break very easily. And it's to the point that I am tired of being handled at all by others, because I'm exceedingly tired of being broken, and am not entirely willing yet to take on the responsibility of healing myself. There are still cracks that I don't know how to mend, and I don't think I have the tools right now to even begin fixing them. I suppose I'm trying to sit quietly and allow my defense mechanisms to take over until I come up with a better plan.
Like those dolls, I am not allowed to be touched right now.