When the Strong One Breaks

I have always been

a kind, caring person—

someone who looks out for others,

who puts their needs

before my own.

Even now,

I struggle to put

my emotional needs first.

.

I hold space

for everyone’s pain.

I give the best advice I can.

I try to be

a good, helpful friend.

.

But it comes with consequences.

There are so few

who truly listen to me,

who allow me to feel heard.

I’ve always been

someone’s emotional punching bag—

family, friends.

.

I take the lash-outs,

try to fix them

like they’re mine.

But the moment

I reach my limit,

the moment I break—

I become the villain.

The bad friend.

The vile person.

.

Everyone is quick

to spill their feelings

into my open hands.

But when the roles reverse,

no one can be seen

for miles.

.

I give

so much of myself

to other people—

and it’s nearly impossible

to get it back.

I’m human.

I have a heart.

I have emotions.

Most of the time,

I’m left

alone with them.

.

And that’s hard.

.

Yes, I heal.

Yes, I am blessed

to have the select few

who show up.

But sometimes,

you want support

from the ones

you’ve supported

for years.

.

Friends bring out a rage in me

because I always try

to meet them where they’re at—

but they never meet me

where I’m standing.

Their problems

become mine.

Mine

are invisible.

.

They yell,

tells me to shut up

when I speak truth.

They say I don’t understand.

They say they have no one.

But I’m there—

Every day.

Not enough

because I’m not there.

.

What they don’t know

I’m in pain too.

Physically.

.

Mentally,

I’m heavy

with introspection.

They don’t believe in this work,

this breaking

and healing.

.

But I’ve been running.

And it’s been beautiful

and challenging.

Healing is hard.

You have to break down

to heal.

It’s amazingly horrible—

beautifully terrifying.

.

Even if no one sees it,

my pain is real.

Even if I share it,

they’ll ignore it—

tell me theirs matters more.

.

Holding space for others

who won’t do the same for me?

It feels lonely.

It feels like being used.

.

It’s miserable—

and I’m just like

everyone else.

But no one

seems to understand that.

.

I’m usually just an emotional punching bag,

Waiting for the next punch.