You hold everything in, believing the lies you had to tell yourself to stay quiet and silent for so long, so you could cope with the weight of your heaviness.
You carry it, mostly alone. You can let someone else in, one at a time, wrecklessly. And spray paint your story across all kinds of relationships in the hope that someone sees the entire thing so they can tell you what it really means.
You hold on to all their words about you. Turning them over until they become the recipe for your survival. You are thirsty. This is your living water.
Then you stop.
You might be sick. You might be weak. You might be running and fighting and surviving but never thriving. You are on borrowed time.
You know this. You can see your shadow and you’re terrified of her. She has been waiting for you, she wants you to come home to her.
You keep going. You aren’t giving up. Not now, not when you’ve worked this hard to be this afraid. These wounds are now your proof of life. You’ve come this far, no way in hell you’re turning this ship around.
But then, she breaks you. In the middle of all the noise, she gets louder. She’s come for you. It’s time.
You tear wide open, unzipping yourself from before; you sing her song of desperation and let her tell you what to do next. She demands the one thing you’ve been keeping secret. How you’ve been reading lines for this very moment, casting yourself as the understudy for years while no one was really paying attention:
She says … “Remember.”
And then you do.