#findingmyself

tudo estava perfeitamente ali:

ele, sem medo, de braços abertos me aceitando inteira

exatamente como eu sou,

talvez o amor seja isso.

Each day, new flowers bloom — around me, within me, wherever I go.

Birds are singing in tones I’ve never heard, a dawn of spring in the place I now call home.

My rules are open doors: to dance, to joy, to the laughter I never knew with you.

You made me a watcher of wings, told me the sacred must stay untouched, that distance was devotion.

But no longer — I walk my own path, freely, into the places I have never been.

The first photo after a year and seven months in prison feels different. The world after a year and seven months in prison feels different. Even though I kept up with the outside world through TV and newspapers, the world outside isn’t the same. After a year and seven months, when I was released from prison, I didn’t know who had arrived, who had left. I didn’t know what was new, what was old, what was trending. Honestly, I still don’t know, even after eight months of freedom.

It feels like I was frozen in time while the whole world kept turning. People, of course, continued with their lives, while I was stuck there, in prison. The feeling of being smaller, of being lesser than everyone else, gnawed at me and left deep scars until I had to fight and confront myself. I had to rethink everything I knew about prison. Not everyone sees it the same way, but I needed to find some kind of beauty in that experience, because I lived it so intensely that it had to mean something.

In the early days, I thought I was going to lose my mind, that I was going to lose everything. So, I had to start working on myself. I began developing myself personally. I read every book on personal growth I could find. I took every online course I could. I re-learned high school material. I understood that the most important thing about being in prison was what I was going to do with it, and I decided that I was going to make the best of it.

I did yoga naked in a cell. I danced naked in a cell. I made friends, told jokes until late at night, laughed until my stomach hurt. I cried many times. I slept hungry, woke up thirsty. My privacy was ripped away, exposed, shattered. I was diminished, dehumanized. I fought for rights and realized, most of the time, it wasn’t worth it. I translated documents in Portuguese, English, Spanish, and French. I worked on immigration cases. I wrote every day. I taught classes. I exercised. I did and lived the best I could in that situation.

Sitting in the dark because it brings far more comfort than the light.

There is nothing here for all my doubts and fears, and at the bottom, the well of all my tears.

There, a child is crying, a teenager is screaming, and a young woman is trying desperately to find meaning.

I look to them with pity; their emotions are plenty, overwhelm wrapping me like vines, the thorns of each new and old emotion digging in.

My blood, sweat, and tears— yet life never feels like a win. How long must I carry the weight I thought I had dropped?

When will I heal enough to live and not exist, to thrive and not survive, to find joy in everyday life?

To find solace in those that love me, to find beauty in those that accept me, to stand in awe of my reflection, to see the me those loving eyes mirror back.

To find comfort in the words that soothe the crying child, to calm the screaming teenager, to guide the young woman, explaining that life is an adventure that doesn’t need a plan.

To help the survivor understand that in order to thrive, she must let go of control, to let be, to not look back— the future is waiting, and the present is calling.

Healing may not be linear, but it’s a checkpoint— so even if we have to go back, we can always move forward.

And one day, we will stand firm in ourselves; we will whisper, I love you.

Hi everyone! I’m C, and today I want to share something deeply personal with you—a project that reflects my journey to understand and, hopefully, love myself. I’m a huge fan of Dungeons & Dragons, and during one of the toughest times in my life, I found solace in an RPG game, Baldur’s Gate 3. But this journey isn’t just about playing a game; it’s about using it as a tool for self-reflection. What if a game could help us better understand ourselves? I’m not saying this is a quick fix or a substitute for real therapy, but it’s become my way of exploring the parts of myself that feel hard to reach in everyday life. We often shape who we are through interactions with others, but what happens when you're alone? Can interactions with fictional characters—who possess very real traits—help us reflect on ourselves when we don't have friends or someone close by? One important thing to note is that I’ve never drawn before in my life. I started learning how to draw just to begin (and hopefully finish) this project. I’ve seen so many talented artists create amazing BG3 comics and use comics as a way to cope, so I thought, why not do the same? So please be patient with me, and forgive any inconsistencies as I’m still learning. If I could, I’d pay one of the fantastic artists out there, but unfortunately, that’s not possible right now. Another important detail about me is that I have aphantasia—I can’t imagine mental images. When I close my eyes, there’s no escape into an imagined world. That’s why I’m using comics to visualize this journey; it’s the most effective way for me to process and truly see myself in action. I need to witness my character, “C,” navigating her way through challenges. Maybe if someone can appreciate her, I can start to understand and appreciate myself too.

You can also read the episodes here: https://fanon.co/fanfics/0147-BG3-Faces-of-the-forgotten/s/d7eafbc3

I also hope to add it to AO3 soon!

I feel like, after many, many years of struggle, I’ve finally cast the discourses out of my soul—that they’re still scorching the door, hissing, writhing on the ground, but that there are now clear boundaries. They’re no longer tearing me to pieces, devouring me mercilessly, whispering, and disguising themselves as my authentic thoughts and feelings. What I think is crosswise; it’s not vertical or horizontal, but rather spinning constantly like a mill. These discourses are merely tools, an external emanation, and I no longer need them to create the project of "Me." I came into the world in the crossfire of constructions—nationality, gender, capital, language, and so on—but managed to hide a seed somewhere in the corners before the darkness arrived.

Hey internet void,

I’ve spent countless evenings chasing sunsets, hoping to capture the magic of that golden hour in a photograph, or maybe even in my heart. Each dip below the horizon has been a reminder of what I'm missing - someone to share that breathtaking moment with. A hand to hold, a shoulder to lean on as we watch the world transform into hues of pink and orange.

Dinner dates have been a solitary affair, a table for one, filled with the echo of conversations that could have been. I've imagined the clinking of glasses, the laughter, the shared stories. But the reality is empty plates and quiet rooms. I long for that electric energy that only another person can bring, the kind that sparks conversations and ignites something deep within.

I’m searching for a love that feels like coming home, a connection so profound it upends everything you thought you knew. Someone who sees the shadows and the light within me, and loves me unconditionally. A partner in crime, an adventure buddy, a confidant, and a lover. The kind of person who makes you question everything, challenges you to grow, and ultimately, makes you a better version of yourself.

When I first wrote this, I was trying to remember who I used to be—the girl I lost somewhere along the way, buried under trauma and bad choices. She was someone who used to laugh freely, who had dreams that soared beyond the walls of this city. I can still picture those late nights, holding myself together as best I could, whispering that I’d be okay. Back then, I believed in love like it was a fairytale I could write myself into. I stayed up late reading fanfictions and Wattpad stories about impossible love, love that could break boundaries and conquer anything. I played Lana del Rey, Cigarettes After Sex, Marina on repeat, as if those songs were spells to summon the girl I wanted to become.

I was eighteen, naive but full of hope. I was barely an adult, just a child with big dreams and a heart wide open to the world. I thought I could live out the stories I read, maybe save a damaged soul or impress someone untouchable. I wanted to be the heroine, blissfully unaware of the dark corners lurking in real-life romances.

And then, I met him, mere months after moving to this big sin city. The guy with the tragic past, the one everyone warned me about. I remember the rush of excitement, how his blue eyes seemed like portals to a world I wanted so badly to understand. He was my “tortured angel,” his blond hair a mess I wanted to untangle. I threw myself into him, believing I could save him. But instead, he broke me, shattering the wings I hadn’t realized were so fragile.

I fell hard, fast, and with my whole heart, and he dragged me back to reality. The painful lesson: broken romances don’t last. They leave scars that burrow deep, wounds that linger, and that take years to close. I wish I could’ve held on to the person I was before him, but survival meant leaving her behind.

I can still feel the weight of that day—the first time he raised his hand against me. I felt my heart shatter, piece by piece, as if the world I’d built up in my mind had been a lie all along. I searched for the girl I used to be, but he had chased her away, replacing dreams with nightmares. By then, I’d become a ghost of who I was, numb, broken, holding on to anything I could to stay alive.

And then, there was the day he shoved me down, and I realized I was carrying a part of him. The positive test was a lifeline, an impossible irony. I didn’t know how to survive him until I had to protect someone else. He shoved me again, knocked me down again, and with every hit, I felt pieces of myself stirring back to life. I was reborn, in a twisted way, as I lost that child. That loss sparked something in me, reigniting the fire I thought was gone forever.

It’s been a long, brutal road, and the wounds remain. I may never be who I was before him, but I’m still here, standing on my own. And that, I’ve realized, is more than enough. I’ve learned that surviving isn’t about forgetting the past; it’s about reclaiming yourself, piece by piece, from the ashes.

The song at the bottom of this entry was what he sang to me every time, and it will forever be associated with him. (The Lil Peep obsession is 100% the red flag in hindsight.)