9/15
From the journal:
I love this image so much, it feels like home. I keep it in my journal because it feels like her. The life I’ve always dreamed of but didn’t know it would be so fucking hard to have, and today I’m struggling. I’m scared that in trying to protect my mental health, I’ve unintentionally pushed away the only person I’ve ever loved. Even the act of typing that makes me feel panicked. I’m terrified that in trying to sort out all that is wrong I’ve lost all that is right. Some days I just want to scream until my voice is gone. I didn’t know the human body could hold so many tears. I’m trying really hard to not punish myself, not to think it’s all my fault. I’m trying to trust in this love, but I’ve never known a love that stays with me, that endures no matter what. Once the novelty is gone, so are they. I’ve learned over the years that having faith in other people’s love is the heaviest burden I bare. I’ve always been so terrified at the thought of being abandoned that I’ve chosen to mold myself to into whatever the other person wants, like a frog boiling itself to death in the water of acceptance. It’s so scary to say out loud that I deserve to be happy and I am valuable just as I am, no molding necessary. I have become the person who would protect that little girl inside me that no one ever did. I have become the woman who is learning to love herself first, but I’ll admit if I end up without her, I’m not sure I’d feel it was worth it.
The poem that came from the journal entry:
I’m scared that in my frantic quest to guard
what little sanity I have left,
I’ve pushed away the only person
who ever meant anything to me.
Merely the thought sends a shiver down my spine,
a cold grip of panic that tightens like a noose.
I’m terrified that in trying to sort out
the chaos in my mind,
I’ve lost sight of all that was right,
like a child who loses their security blanket
and can't remember where it was left.
Some days, I feel the urge to cry endlessly,
to let the sound tear through me
until my voice is nothing but a memory.
I didn’t know the human body could hold
so many tears,
a wellspring that threatens to overflow,
drowning me in my own sorrow.
I’m trying hard not to punish myself,
to shake off the notion
that it’s all my fault—
that I’m the architect of my own despair,
for that is my worst fear.
I will admit, trust in this love feels like a gamble,
for I’ve never known a love that stays,
that clings like a stubborn vine,
unyielding against the storms of life.
Once the novelty wears off,
they always vanish like smoke,
and so the stones of faith in others
is the weight I carry,
heavy is the sack of stones slung across my back.
So terrified of abandonment,
I mold myself into whatever shape
the other person desires,
like a frog unwittingly boiling alive,
the water warming while I flounder
in the acceptance of it all.
It feels downright blasphemous
to declare that I deserve happiness,
that I hold value just as I am—
no molding or boiling required.
I’ve become the fierce protector
of that little girl inside me,
the one nobody bothered to shield.
I’ve become the woman who’s learning
to love herself first,
but I’ll admit, if I end up without her,
I wonder if all this effort
amounts to anything at all.
The world rolls on, indifferent
to my struggles and my fears,
and I stand here, caught in the tension,
between the desire for connection
and the fear of losing myself.
In this twisted Southern gothic of longing,
where love feels like mist dissipating in the heat,
I search for a flicker of grace,
some sign that I’m not meant
to navigate this life alone,
but I can’t shake the feeling
that perhaps I’m just another
lost soul wandering through the weeds.
