Chernobyl

I promised I would try to take care of myself this week. I want you to know that I meant it. 

I went and walked on the beach and listened to the birds sing. They were seagulls and it was probably more a frantic cacophony of squawking, but honestly that seems like an appropriate theme song for 2023. 

I stopped and smelled the roses. I mean, maybe they weren't so much "roses" as they were "weeds," but isn't it more symbolically appropriate to find weeds life-affirming anyway? After all, anyone can appreciate flowers. I kind of prefer the unyielding tenacity of weeds. Their commitment to grow in the most inhospitable environments is admirable. I could probably learn a few things from weeds. 

I took some time at lunch to walk around the marina by the office and soak in the beauty of the boats gliding through the water. With all the grace of a bull in a china shop, I may have tripped and fell into the water. I waited to see if anyone would notice me starting to drown. They didn't. They never do.

I've indulged in relaxing baths and a little light meditation before bedtime. It seems I've found the perfect routine to allow me to drift off to sleep peacefully. Or perhaps piece-fully might be more accurate given the unrelenting nature of my nightmares lately. Nighttime is no longer about "rest." It's simply about collecting tiny fragments of unconsciousness and hoping like hell they add up to enough energy to get through another day. 

Of course, maybe I did absolutely none of those things and instead spent the week writing shitty magnetic poetry about nightmares and going down a rabbit-hole of Chernobyl documentaries, as one does. But hey, that should at least count as some proper downward social comparison, right? Because at least I'm not radioactive, and I haven't been forced to abandon my home at a moment's notice.

So, I dunno…

Maybe it's time to just build a blanket fort and hide from the world so I don't have a total meltdown and poison everyone around me. You know, kinda like the No. 4 reactor in Chernobyl, which also lost control during a test at low power due to poor design and insufficiently prepared personnel at the helm. And I, too, have a very inadequate containment structure for my toxicity. Hell, maybe that's why I'm so fucking isolated and lonely all the time. I've created an exclusion zone to keep everyone far enough away that I won't hurt them. 

On the positive side, I think I may have found my spirit nuclear reactor. Everyone has one of those, right? 

And eventually reactor No. 4 did get a proper containment structure, so maybe there's hope for me still. Of course, that containment structure is referred to as a sarcophagus, so I'm not sure that inspires a lot of optimism…

But hey, if I'm gonna be kindred spirits with a nuclear reactor, at least maybe I'll get a decent superpower out of it...or at least a third eyeball. 

exhausted

Complex PTSD triggers are exhausting.

Very. Fucking. Exhausting.

Because how do I explain being triggered by a fixing can of Diet Coke? Not regular Coke. Not Coke Zero. Diet Coke. And ONLY in a can. 

Or why seeing Toyota Camry will shut me down in a heartbeat. But not just any Toyota Camry. A 2002-2006 Toyota Camry. Bonus points if it's beige.

Or why a crying child will make me frozen with fear. Doesn't even have to be my child. It may come as a huge surprise, but it's really fucking hard to be a parent when a crying child completely causes me to be unable to function.

Or why a hug sometimes makes me feel completely suffocated. Not even a tight bear hug. Just a nice, gentle hug. Sometimes the thing I feel like I need the most is one of the things that I know will likely trigger the shit out of me. Which is, of course, super cool.

Or why loud noises make my whole body tense up and feel like my chest is being crushed by a Buick. Doesn't have to be a scary noise. Just loud. News flash - loud noises are fucking everywhere. 

Or why my own silent crying sometimes makes me feel like I'm choking - like I literally might die. For extra danger, take away the silence. Advance to "Go" and collect $200 if I'm triggered to the point of feeling like dying doesn't actually sound like such a bad idea. 

Or why the phrase "it feels rude" will send me into flashbacks and leave me unable to move or speak. It's a fast pass to the magical land of dissociation. It's just like Disney except that it completely and totally sucks on every level imaginable. Worst. Teacup. Ride. Ever.

I could go on and on, but the point is that it fucking sucks to have such overwhelming, terrifying and downright exhausting responses to things that seem so random. For people who experience similar things, no explanation is necessary. For those who haven't, no explanation would really be sufficient. 

And then there are weeks like this where I find out that there are comments being made about me behind my back when I'm shut down/triggered/dissociated/whatever, and it just makes "feeling" seem unsafe. So I try. I try to look and act normal-ish. I try to pretend that the real me isn't cowering in the corner of my mind while my trauma hurls insults and beats the shit out of me. 

But some days I spend so much of my energy just trying to survive that there's honestly no energy left for pretending. There's often not really even enough energy for existing. But I do the best I can because that's literally all I can do. 

I shouldn't have to divulge decades of trauma to get people to not make fun of me for struggling. And yet, here I am in that exact position. I mean, I'm not going to publish a timeline of my traumas to convince people that it's a shitty thing to laugh at people who are having a hard time. Maybe at some point, people will start to consider that others might be dealing with a lot more shit than they realize.

I know, I know...dare to dream...

Just Swim, Damnit!

"Everyone's survival looks a bit like death sometimes."
- Andrea Gibson

Lately, it feels a lot like I've been pushed into the deep end of a pool without having any clue how to actually swim. I'm thrashing and thrashing, desperately trying to keep my head above water. Desperate. Panicked. Scared. 

A voice from the side of the pool calls out - "Just swim!" 

Just swim? No shit, Sherlock. Can't you see that I'm trying? I'm doing everything I can do to try to stay afloat. I just don't know how to swim. It's not that I don't want to. I'm not being willful or obstinate. I just don't know how to do it. No amount of shouting at me from the safety of side of the pool is going to make me suddenly able to quell the panic of drowning and magically swim to the safety of the steps. No amount of reminding me that it'll be better once I learn how to swim is going to make me live long enough to learn how to actually swim. 

"All you need to do is swim!"

I KNOW THAT! Don't you understand that I'm aware of that already? I know that's the goal - I know that's what will save me. I know what I'm supposed to be doing, and I know it's easy for other people. In fact, it frustrates me how easy it is for some people. The thing is, though, that doesn't help me LEARN how to swim. No amount of reminding me from the sidelines that swimming will save me is actually going to help me figure out how to swim - it's just going to remind me that I should know how to do this already. Someone should've taught me. But the fact that it's easy for other people doesn't make it any easier for ME. 

"Jesus Christ. Didn't you learn to swim when you were younger?"

Nope. Not even an awkward doggy paddle. Hell, not even a dead man's float. Nobody ever even tried to teach me. To be honest, it never really occurred to me that I'd live long enough for it to be an issue. Flailing about helplessly is the only move I've ever been able to teach myself. This dance of fear and panic has become a display of carefully orchestrated chaos. It's not pretty, but it's the only thing keeping my head above water. Nobody ever told me that learning to swim would be important - or maybe they just never cared. It's not that I haven't tried to learn to swim. It's just really hard to learn to swim when I'm spending all of my time and energy just trying not to drown.

"Just SWIM, damnit!"

You know what? Fuck you. I'm trying. Maybe if you weren't so terrified of getting wet, you could help me stay afloat while I figure this shit out. Maybe I don't need to actually be rescued. Maybe I just need some guidance and support while I learn to rescue myself. Maybe I just need someone who is willing to get in the water with me and keep me from drowning while I learn to swim - or at least someone willing to throw me a fucking rope. Fuck it though. I probably wouldn't grab the rope anyway. There's really nobody to blame but myself anyway.

"It's like you're not even trying!"

I dunno - maybe I'm not anymore. The thing is, I don't even know if I want to try to swim these days. I WANT to want it, but I'm tired of people shouting at me from their dry, safe spot by the edge of the pool. I'm tired of fighting. I'm tired of being too scared to ask for or accept help. I'm exhausted. I ache in places I didn't even know existed. 

Just let me drown already. 

Screaming into the Void

“It’s okay. Everybody’s survival looks a little bit like death sometimes.”

- Andrea Gibson

Therapist: "Hi! How are you?"

Chaotic as fuck, to be honest. Just feeling kind of spun out lately.

And it feels like none of it matters. To me or to anyone really. 

It doesn't matter how overwhelmed I feel. I don't even know how to adequately express how much existence just feels like defeat lately. 

It doesn't matter how hopeless the idea of healing seems right now. I'm a year into therapy and most days I feel like I've barely moved at all. Right now, I'm not exactly sure what progress looks like anyway.  

It doesn't matter how ill-equipped I am to even just minimally tolerate everything. I know, I know - just stop fighting the feelings! But not fighting with them feels less like acceptance and more like resignation lately. I'm not sure how to keep my "give-a-shit" alive anymore.

It doesn't matter that I can't just fucking cry like a normal person. I mean, is it really too much to ask for one normal coping mechanism? But even if I could cry, it would probably just trigger an uncontrollable spiral anyway because trauma is stupid and messy and unpleasant.

It doesn't matter how alone I feel on this journey. It's not about social isolation or a general lack of people. It's about trying to keep people from being impacted by my fucked-upness. I hate being a burden, but in times like this, I don't know what else to be. So I isolate because I don't want to hurt anyone else.

It doesn't matter that I can't just rest. Not emotionally. Not physically. My mind won't slow down and settle. Sleep used to be a respite, but lately it's been filled with nothing but nightmares. My chest is painfully tight and heavy with anxiety - and it just won't stop. I just want it to stop.

It doesn't matter that there comes a point where the only way I know to cope is to literally destroy myself, little by little. It just doesn't fucking matter. I'd rather destroy myself than anyone else. Other people don't deserve that. For some reason, I'm convinced that I do.

It doesn't matter how much I just feel like walking into oncoming traffic, as long as I won't actually do it. And if I won't actually do it, how much could I even be struggling? If I were really feeling that hopeless, I'd just shut up and throw myself in front of a truck already, right? 

It doesn't matter. 

It doesn't matter because I still get up every day and go to my job. I go through the motions and bust my ass at work and at the end of the day, I do a decent job. 

It doesn't matter because even on the days I've teetered on the brink of suicide, I still got up and did my job because that's what people expected of me. It can't be that bad if I can still function at work. 

It doesn't matter because my kids still get clothed and fed. They're loved and cared for. Even when I had an actual plan to kill myself, they were still getting clothed and fed. It can't be that bad if I'm not neglecting my kids. 

It doesn't matter because I can still appear functional. I can hide the broken parts. I always have. Even on my worst days, I still managed to keep it together "enough" to not really concern anyone. It's like slapping a bandage on a wound while I slowly bleed out.

It doesn't matter because I can survive it. Not well. Not without destruction. Not without risk and danger. No, when I say that I can survive it, I simply mean that I'll continue to breathe. My heart will continue to beat. But it doesn't mean I'll live. 

It doesn't matter because I'm too afraid of being seen as "dramatic" to actually be able to express how much I'm struggling. I've been conditioned my whole life to believe that it's an overreaction to actually feel anything. I feel ridiculous even writing this. Hell, I feel ridiculous for even just feeling this way.

It doesn't matter because I'm too afraid of being seen as needy to actually reach out for help. I'm too afraid of being left alone if I actually try to reach out to help and am met with indifference. I'm afraid of what it would mean for me if that happened. 

It doesn't matter because I'll continue to run myself into the ground to keep from being seen as weak. I'll keep running myself into the ground to keep people from worrying about me.

It doesn't matter because I don't even know how to let anyone see how much I'm struggling anyway. It's like a switch is flipped when I'm around anyone else and I'm suddenly completely unable to access anything that resembles actual emotions.

I don't even know if I really matter. I'm not even sure I want to matter anyway at this point. Maybe it's easier if I don't - at least for other people.

So yeah, I'm absolutely not okay. I'll continue to exist, but I'm definitely not okay. Thanks for asking.

Therapist: "So, same time next week?"

I don't fucking know if I can keep doing this to myself over and over again.

Me: "Yeah, same time next week.."

*sigh*

Bring it. 

Resilience

"Forests may be gorgeous but there is nothing more alive than a tree that learns how to grow in a cemetery."  
- Andrea Gibson

After the divorce, I decided to finally do something for myself. I was so tired of putting myself last for so long that I risked feeling a little selfish and booked a trip to Yellowstone to celebrate my newfound freedom. 

Not gonna lie, it was actually pretty terrifying. I'd never tried this whole "vacation" thing by myself. I'd never navigated the airport alone. I'd never tackled the horrifically anxiety inducing "security checkpoint" by myself (and oh my god, what if I accidentally packed a bomb in my carry-on luggage without realizing it - because that's totally a thing that could realistically happen). I'd never rented a car or orchestrated hotel room stays. Making decisions and generally having opinions and preferences was not something that had previously been permitted. 

It's REALLY difficult to plan a vacation when you have no idea how to be a functional adult. I'd spent a lifetime learning that I couldn't trust myself, and the previous decade had been a bear constant reminder of how wholely inadequate I was. Somehow, though, I managed to figure it out. I made myself a priority for the first time in my life - and it was amazing. It was absolutely terrifying, but amazing.

I remember driving around aimlessly in Yellowstone National Park the day after I arrived. It was a nice day, but the skies were a little overcast. There had been a drought that year and Mammoth Hot Springs were not particularly "springy." Then as I drove around a corner, I saw it...

This tree right here. This simple, unassuming little tree. It's like one day it just decided, "Fuck you and your inhospitable environment - I'm gonna grow here whether you like it or not!" And then it grew out of that damn rock like the little badass it is. I decided right then that it would be my spirit tree. 

I was fortunate to be able to get a bunch of fantastic pictures of so many of the gorgeous things in the park, and yet this not-so-gorgeous picture is - and always has been - my favorite. It's not a particularly pretty picture. It's not all that interesting, and I clearly kinda suck at photography. Still, though, this picture is and always has been my favorite.

When I look at this picture, I can't help but see resilience and determination. I feel like I was meant to stumble upon that little tree, just tucked away off the side of the road. This tree was my reminder that I don't have to let my past keep me from planting my feet firmly on the ground and demanding to grow. 

Are there better environments that are more conducive to growth? Sure. But that's not the hand I was dealt. I had to choose between being that stubborn asshole that refuses to give up or just resigning myself to failure. And I'm still here, so it's pretty obvious that I live to be a stubborn asshole. 

So naturally when we took a family trip to Yellowstone recently, spirit tree was in the itinerary. In fact, it was pretty much the only thing on the itinerary for me (because truthfully I'm not much of a planner). 

Years later, this time with husband and kids in tow, I finally laid eyes on my spirit tree again. 

Those who know me well know that the first miracle here is that I even remembered where this tree was located in the park. Normally that exchange would have gone something like this:

Husband: "So where exactly is this tree that we need to go back and visit?"

Me: "Oh, you know, it's just over there..." *gestures broadly at the entirety of Yellowstone National Park*

But not this time. This time I KNEW where it was. This little tree left THAT much of an impression on me. Years later, I still knew exactly where it was. Exactly. I mean, good Lord, I can set my glasses down, and I won't even remember where they are two minutes later - but that tree, man...there was something about it. There still is...

I see you, tree. Fuck this hostile environment bullshit - we'll both make it.

Letter to a Rapist.

"What if I don't want the monster

to stop being a monster?

What if that's the only anchor I have left?

What if my sanity depends on being able to point

at a bad thing and say, That is the bad thing.

Haven't I already lost enough time

losing track of who the enemy is?

I've spent half of my life not knowing the difference

between killing myself and fighting back."

- Andrea Gibson

To My Rapist:

“My rapist.” I don't think I've ever called you that before. Frankly it feels a little disgusting. I don’t want you to be “my” anything. I don’t want to claim you as any part of my life. You don’t deserve that kind of power. You honestly never did - but that didn’t keep you from taking it anyway. You're the chapter of my story that I've been too ashamed to read out loud. 

For years I've blamed myself. I've assumed all of the responsibility for no other reason than the fact that I was the one who was sober. I should have seen it coming. I should have known that you weren't safe. There should have been signs - I should have seen them. Why the hell couldn't I see them? 

I didn't realize that making excuses for you meant continuing to make myself the “bad guy.” I didn’t realize that letting it fall on my shoulders meant giving up what was left of my ability to trust myself. I blamed myself because somehow hating myself felt less scary than admitting that I had absolutely no control. So I gave you a pass because you were drunk off your ass. I gave you a pass because I was afraid of what it would mean for my view of the world if I didn’t. You fucking raped me, and I gave you a pass because I was too broken to do anything else.

You took my sense of safety far beyond that one night. For years, I believed that I was the unsafe person - I was the one who wasn’t able to keep the bad thing from happening. I didn’t know how to trust that I even had the capacity to keep myself safe - I still kind of don’t. It’s not really even that I can’t trust other people anymore - it’s that I can't even trust myself to know who's safe. 

When we first met, I was struggling. I had just gotten out of an abusive marriage and was trying to learn how to live on my own again. You knew that. I guess that’s also how you knew I’d be an easy target. I was emotionally vulnerable and desperate for someone to give a shit. I naively thought that maybe you actually did. You took advantage of that in the most shitty way possible when you decided that your “needs” were more important than my value as a human being. 

I always thought that if I were in that situation, I would fight back - I'd kick and scream. I’d at least do something, right? You forced me to give you oral sex, and you did it with such aggression and force, I couldn’t even breathe. I literally could not breathe. It was so fucking terrifying. I panicked because I realized there was nothing I could do to stop you. I was too scared to try to fight back. There were tears running down my face - it was one of the last times I ever actually allowed myself to cry. Did you even notice my tears? Would you have cared if you had? 

I wonder these days if that’s the reason I don’t let myself cry anymore. It makes me feel too scared, too helpless, too inhuman. It’s not even the act of crying - it’s the feeling of dried tears on my face that I can’t stand. That physical sensation makes me feel like I’m right back in that moment. I never thought I'd miss the ability to cry without feeling panicked and ashamed, but there was always something really healing about a long, hard cry - almost cathartic. Sometimes it physically hurts to not have that anymore.

But you didn’t care - you just continued on with the assault. As I felt your weight on top of me, all I could do was freeze like a goddamn coward. Scared. Helpless. Vacant. Resigned. I felt your hands on my neck…and I did nothing. With every thrust of your body I felt more and more numb. I just laid there and waited for it to be over. At that point I'm not sure I could've convinced my body to move anyway. But the truth is that I shouldn't have ever been forced to choose between being scared into compliance and being brave that night. 

I completely shut down. I don't know where I went, just that I wasn't really there anymore. That was the only way I knew to protect myself. My mind keeps trying to interpret my resignation as willingness because it just can't reconcile the fact that you forced yourself on me and I did absolutely nothing to stop it. I still feel the same panic I felt that night every once in a while with my husband. I hate that you show up in those intimate moments sometimes. It feels intrusive and gross. 

You couldn't even be bothered to wear a fucking condom. At some point during the whole thing, I remember you making a comment about how I shouldn’t worry because you wouldn’t finish inside me. Your exact comment was that “it feels rude.” Are you fucking kidding me? Did you consider everything you’d done to me up until that point to be a portrait of gentlemanly behavior? Is that really where you drew the line between what’s acceptable and what isn’t? Are you really that fucked up? 

I'm curious, was there ever anything I could have done to change your mind? Did I ever even stand a chance? Did you even consider that I was an actual human being with feelings and not just some fuck doll for you to violate how you saw fit? Actually, nevermind. We both already know the answer to that question. You didn’t care how helpless or scared or humiliated I felt that night. I’m not sure I’ve ever entirely been able to get past that feeling of complete powerlessness. I couldn’t even protect myself. 

I guess I should consider myself fortunate though, right? At least I was on birth control (ironically for reasons that had absolutely nothing to do with contraception, but it's the only win I got that night). Lucky for me, all I had to worry about were STDs. And let me tell you, it was an absolute joy to find out that my insurance wouldn't even cover the cost of those tests. I was a single mom - I didn't have hundreds of spare dollars to spend. But sure, let me just pull that money out of my ass because of course that should be my responsibility. I sure as hell wasn't able to pull the money out of my bank account…

Even now, when I’m out and about and I see someone who looks like you, it stops me dead in my tracks. Frozen with panic, my stomach drops and I can barely breathe. In that moment, the fear and helplessness are back, even if just for a moment. It makes me angry that years later I still let you have so much power over me that just the thought of you can make me feel like I'm right back in that moment. I've spent nearly my entire life feeling powerless. To be honest, it's getting a little old. 

When you contacted me a year later, you lamented the fact that your life was headed downhill and you were convinced that it was payback for how you treated me. Was that supposed to be a fucking apology? Was that really all you could muster - some self-pity about how your struggles were some kind of retribution for what you did to me? Did you think it would make me feel better to know that you were struggling? Do you even realize how unbelievably selfish it was to contact me at all in some buillshit attempt to clear your conscience? 

The thing I can't figure out, though, is how in that moment I still felt some compassion for you in your struggles. I wonder what it says about me that despite everything you did to me, I still felt bad for you. I’d like to think it says something extraordinary about my character, but honestly it just makes me feel weak and pathetic. It’s a struggle to accept that I can have compassion for you without feeling like I'm devaluing myself as a person. But despite being a struggle,  I CAN have compassion for you and still be absolutely livid with you. I don’t have to choose. In fact, I'm a better person when I don't. 

I thought for a long time that I wasn't actually angry with you for what you did. I was too busy being angry with myself for trusting you. I just didn't have any time or energy left to be angry with you. But it wasn't my fault. It never was and never will be. I know it, and you know it. As I begin to believe it, I'm starting to see the anger towards you bubble up. It feels both oddly liberating and completely toxic.

So fuck you. Fuck your entitlement and your belief that nobody else matters. Fuck you for taking advantage of my emotional vulnerability and trust. Fuck you and your drinking - it'll never excuse what you did. Fuck you for prioritizing your penis over my basic rights as a person. Fuck you and your half-assed, pathetic excuse for an "apology." Fuck you for being a selfish asshole. 

I've tried to find the silver lining in all of this, and I'm beginning to see that there really isn't one. I'm not a better or stronger person for having been raped. The belief that people can't be trusted hasn't been helpful nor has the feeling that I can’t even trust myself. Being automatically uncomfortable when alone in a room with a man isn't really healthy or fair to men who aren't assholes (and thankfully most men aren’t). I haven't had any profound epiphanies or fabulous personal growth as a result of this experience. As much as I'd like to believe that everything happens for some grand purpose, the truth is that some things are just shitty and there's nothing that really makes any of it make sense. 

But you know what? I'll be okay. I'm not sure how I'll get there or how long it'll take. It truthfully doesn't even matter. The important thing is that I know I'll make it. 

So yes, you'll always be a chapter in my story, but I'm starting to realize how much power there is in being the author. 

Insincerely,

Me

Shame

Dear Shame,

I don’t even remember how we first met. You’ve been with me for as far back as I can remember. You've been my best friend, constant companion and the only one I knew would never leave my side. 

As a young child, you helped silence my cries of despair and wipe the tears from my face so that nobody would notice my pain. It saved me from the hurt of knowing that nobody cared. When I timidly raised my hand in class, you gave me a gentle reminder that maybe I shouldn’t be quite so eager to ask questions. After all, there is such a thing as a stupid question - you made sure I knew that. When I was bullied, you helped me shrink into a corner and hide. When teachers joined in on the fun, you helped me disappear entirely. 

As I grew older, you held me close when I wanted nothing more than to die. You draped over me like a well worn sweatshirt to help me hide my self-harm. Every time I looked in the mirror, you were there reminding me that I would never meet some arbitrary standard of beauty. You taught me that silence was golden - it kept me from the pain of having my feelings and experiences invalidated by the people closest to me. What they don't know can't hurt me - at least that's the story you told me. You were by far the most dependable friend I've ever had, always willing to be there for me at a moment's notice.

As I grew into an adult, you reminded me that I couldn’t afford to be too picky about who I spent my time with - after all, nobody else was knocking down the door to look after me like you did. You taught me to keep a safe distance from people and to never rock the boat. When I started to find my voice, you always reminded me to turn the volume down until silence was all that was left. 

At work, you've gone above and beyond to keep me humble, always focusing on my mistakes. You remind me that my current job is my "safe zone," and you make sure I never dare stray too far - life outside my comfort zone would just be too scary. You convinced me I wasn't good enough to venture outside of my comfort zone anyway.

When I saw the red flags while I was dating my ex-husband, you reminded me that he was what I deserved. After all, nobody else would ever love me. As the abuse began, those reminders kept coming. They’ve never actually stopped. To be honest, I kind of admire your persistence. 

As the abuse grew worse, we grew closer. As it got scarier, I clung to you for support. You were always happy to oblige. You were delighted to remind me once again that it was what I deserved. You still held me close when I felt like ending everything and graciously helped keep the self-harm hidden. You kept the smile on my face even as I walked through hell. Heaven forbid anyone should see the real me. 

As I was pinned down and fighting to free myself or cowering as he threw whatever he could get his hands on at me, you made sure I knew that tears were weakness and fighting back was futile. And I took the abuse like a champ - you were so proud. I could take a solid verbal hit too. Bitch, whore, worthless piece of shit - the list of insults are far more than I could ever list. You'd trained me so well, I didn't even flinch. 

You taught me to apologize for existing. Over and over and over again. I'd learned over the years that my existence was an imposition. As time has passed, I've made myself smaller and smaller - you've made sure I stayed that way. Still afraid to exist and take up space. Afraid to breathe the air that was meant for someone more worthy. Afraid to be seen and heard. 

Honestly, you’ve been coming on a little too strong lately. It’s not that I’m uncomfortable with how close we’ve become. Quite the contrary, actually. I’m a little too comfortable with it. Over the years, I’ve started to look less and less like myself and more and more like you. I don’t really even remember what I look like without you at my side. 

Even now, though there are people who actually want to see and hear me, I can't seem to escape your chokehold. I can't breathe. I can't find my voice. I can't figure out how to stop being so fucking small that I disappear through the cracks. But the people who want to hear me are encouraging me to find my voice. The people who want to see me are helping me grow tall enough to stand on my own two feet. My voice may be shaky and my gait wobbly, but they're not giving up on me. More importantly, I'm not giving up on myself, so I don't need your constant companionship anymore. 

I know you’ll still show up on my doorstep uninvited sometimes. I know you’ll still shout insistently at the top of your lungs until I listen. So fine, I’ll listen - but I won't be silenced anymore. We can sit and chat, and I'll hear you out. After all, there's still a lot I'd like to learn about you - and I'd be lying if I said you've never done anything good for me. But just so we're clear, you don't run the show anymore.

So it's not you, it's me. I deserve more out of life than just constantly trying to dig myself out of the grave you dug for me. We were never really meant to be soulmates anyway.

Sincerely,

Me