✍️ Fragments of Me — Entry 1: The War of My Parts

I wake up already tired. Not the kind of tired sleep can fix—the kind that comes from being pulled apart from the inside. My parts are loud today. One is rushing, demanding, making lists. Another is quiet, hiding, curling into corners. Another is angry, another is numb, another is trying to hold it all together.

They all think they’re helping. They all think they’re right. And maybe they are. But they’re pulling me in opposite directions, and I’m the rope in the middle, fraying.

People see the aftermath. They see me forget things—appointments, errands, conversations I swore I’d remember. They see me scatter-brained, inconsistent, unreliable. They say I don’t care. But I do. I care so much it hurts. I just don’t know which part of me made the promise, and which part of me is supposed to keep it.

I’m exhausted. Mentally, emotionally, spiritually. I feel like I’m breaking.

And that’s not all. I miss my girls so deeply it feels like a physical ache. I carry that grief every second. I’m still trying to heal from relationships that left me bleeding—men who claimed to love me but only taught me pain. I let people in who said they cared, and they hurt me. I’m still trying to understand why I allowed it.

Sobriety is hard. Every day is a fight. And the world doesn’t make it easier. I’m more than qualified for jobs I’ll never get because of my record. Warrants. Labels. Stigma. It’s like dragging a boulder uphill while everyone else gets a paved road.

I cry more than I admit. Every minute, every hour, every day. I feel alone. I feel scared. And I feel like the only thing connecting all the parts of me is pain.

I’m numb to everything else.

But I’m still here. Still writing. Still trying.

This is the war of my parts. And this is only the beginning.