This is not what healing is like

Sometimes,

the noises in my head sound like construction sites;

jackhammers of doubt, drills of regret,

banging on the fragile walls I’ve built just to make it through the day.

Other times,

the silence is an explosion,

so loud it swallows my thoughts,

leaves my ears numb,

and my heart trembling in the aftermath.

I live in a body that remembers,

a mind that won’t forget.

I walk around holding “what ifs” like they’re mine to mourn forever.

And maybe they are.

I speak affirmations into mirrors that never answer back.

I tell myself I’m enough,

but the words fall flat.

They don’t reach the parts of me that matter.

Not anymore.

I was raised on condescension,

fed doubt with every meal,

taught that love must come at the cost of myself.

So I learned to be small,

to hush my truth,

to bleed quietly,

just to make others comfortable.

They made me believe I was the sacrifice,

so I laid down my joy on their altar.

I tell others to choose themselves,

to leave what doesn’t serve them —

but I stay.

There are people I fear leaving,

even though they don’t water me.

They don’t grow me.

They don’t even see me.

But guilt is a heavy leash,

and I’ve been dragging it for years.

I want to let go.

Of them. Of the guilt.

Of the lie that says I must stay broken

to prove I am kind.

Why am I wired this way?

I don’t know.

But I do know this:

This is not healing.

Maybe this is just surviving -

another day,

another breath,

another lie I tell myself just to get through.

I’m not sure what I’m becoming.

Or if I’m becoming anything at all.

All I know is

this version of me hurts.

And I’m still here, hurting.