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 insecurity.

The voices that make me small.