It hurts so much. Everyday. And I can’t ignore it. The way it claws at my stomach. The way it grips at my neck strangling even the thought of calling for help.

it is summoned by every load noise and unexpected hand on the shoulder

looms behind every closed door

in every passing stranger’s eye

it has invaded even the best parts of my life: the touch of a boy with a nice smile, the hug of a friend, the only church pews I’ve ever felt comfortable in.

How can you be defeated by something you cannot see. Something you have no proof of.

A memory.

I have never struggled with appearing vulnerable.

There are certain circumstances that I almost eagerly allow elements of the more “tragic” parts of my life to flow from my lips. I’m not really certain I know why. I think all the times I have been overwhelmed by the notion ‘if only they knew’ have caught up to me. Pulling out the shards of glass that have pierced my soul in the form of stories said through tight lips and downcast eyes has become a familiar part of the getting to know you routine. Though I guess pulling out isn’s the right phrase as the shards of glass remain within me.

no matter the phrasing this practice isn’t fair.

I feel as though it underwrites the idea of vulnerability - commercializes it almost, “show wounds to gain support!” But since when does support come with terms and conditions.

I now have my layers of trauma- that which I have packaged into sharable quantities and that which I no longer allow myself to even think of.

I wish I could go back sometimes. To when no one knew anything. I wish I could relearn what it means to be vulnerable with another not because it is expected - not because I yearn for the feeling of immediate closeness it forces (though unearned).

That is why I share solely thoughts here, not experiences. Though my fingers itch to narrate the experiences that brought me to this conclusion those experiences are mine. mine alone.