I feel like I’m being torn apart from the inside. My parts keep pulling me in opposite directions, each one convinced it knows best, each one louder than the last. One rises up and takes control, only to vanish when another storms in. I never know which version of me will show up, and the constant switching is wearing me down to the bone. It’s not just confusion—it’s exhaustion so heavy I can barely breathe.
People around me see the fragments. They call me forgetful, lazy, scatter-brained. They think I don’t care when I forget conversations, appointments, errands, even something as simple as what I said I’d cook for dinner. But they don’t see the war inside me. They don’t see how each part is having its own conversation, making its own promises, and leaving me to pick up the pieces when none of it lines up. I’m not careless—I’m drowning in too many selves at once.
And then there’s the weight outside of me. Missing my girls is a grief that never loosens its grip. It’s a heaviness that presses on my chest every hour of every day. Relationship wounds pile on top of that—men who claimed to love me but left me broken, people who said they cared but disrespected me, hurt me, made me question my worth. My heart feels shattered into fragments, and the only thing connecting those fragments is pain. Nothing else. Just pain.
Sobriety is another battle I fight alone. Every day is a climb with no summit, every step harder than the last. And while I’m trying to hold myself together, the world keeps pushing me back—reminding me I’m a felon, reminding me of warrants, reminding me that even when I’m more than qualified, doors slam shut in my face. It’s like the universe keeps saying I don’t deserve to move forward, no matter how hard I try.
I cry so much it feels endless. Every minute, every hour, every day, every week. Tears are the only language my body knows right now. I am alone, scared, and numb to everything except the ache. The war inside me never stops, and the war outside me never lets up. I am exhausted from fighting on both fronts, exhausted from trying to prove I care, exhausted from trying to survive when all I feel is heartbreak.
My parts keep me spinning, tearing me in different directions, and I am worn down to nothing. I want peace. I want stillness. I want to stop breaking under the weight of myself and the world. But right now, all I have is the pain that binds me, the exhaustion that defines me, and the hope—fragile, flickering—that maybe one day I’ll find a way to gather all these pieces into something whole.
