There we are. Sitting together like strangers.
Not touching. Not holding hands.
So very foreign to me and our relationship.
I scramble through my brain.
When did you stop telling me your truth?
When did you not tell me what is going on with you?
I jumped through hurdles for you and me.
I tried to be okay, when I wasn't for very valid reasons.
And then I kind of grew up.
Having the sense that the ownership over my emotions, my past and my story lies in my own hands.
And what to do with it.
So, I intentionally tell our therapist about it.
I feel it all over again.
A stolen childhood.
I feel protected in our therapists presence.
Something I haven't felt from you in a long time.
The day after that feels like a huge emotional hangover.
And I hate myself for having said anything at all.
This is too much to feel.
I try not to burst into tears being in the same room with other people.
I try not to let my mind wander into places where I won't get out of.
Not feeling is no option I tell myself.
I tell myself that I started a good thing here.
The work and determination is worth it. (I truly believe that.)
Keep showing up, love.
When all I want to do is hide.
To cover up the shame.
The voices that make me small.