✍️ Fragments of Me — Entry 2: The Weight of Missing My Girls

There are days when the silence in my chest feels heavier than any burden I’ve ever carried. It’s the silence of absence—the silence of missing my girls. Their laughter, their voices, their presence—it’s all gone from my daily life, and the emptiness it leaves behind is unbearable.

I wake up with the ache already pressing against me. My parts argue about how to handle it. One tells me to be strong, to keep moving forward, to bury the grief under routine. Another collapses under the weight, whispering that I’ll never be whole without them. Another tries to numb me, to shut down the feelings entirely, because the pain is too sharp to survive. And I’m caught in the middle, exhausted from trying to hold all of these selves together while the grief keeps tearing me apart.

It’s not just missing them—it’s the guilt, the questions, the endless replay of what I could have done differently. My heart feels shattered into fragments, and every piece is connected only by pain. Nothing else. Just pain.

And while I carry this grief, the world doesn’t stop. Relationships keep breaking me. Men who claimed to love me left scars instead. People who said they cared disrespected me, hurt me, made me doubt my worth. Sobriety is a daily battle, and the stigma of my past—being a felon, having warrants—keeps slamming doors in my face even when I’m more than qualified. Every step forward feels like being shoved two steps back.

I cry constantly. Every minute, every hour, every day. Tears are the only language my body knows right now. I feel alone, scared, and numb to everything except the ache. My parts keep me spinning, dragging me in different directions, and I am worn down to nothing.

But even in the numbness, I write. I write because it’s the only way to give shape to the chaos inside me. I write because if I don’t, the grief will consume me whole. I write because maybe, just maybe, someone will read these words and understand that I am not careless, not uncaring—I am surviving a war that never ends.

Missing my girls is a weight I carry every second. It’s the heaviest part of me. And yet, it’s also the part that reminds me I am still human, still capable of love, still tethered to something real even when everything else feels broken.

This is the weight of missing them. This is the war of my fragments. And this is why I keep writing—because even shattered glass can catch the light.