So this time around, I’m giving myself permission to play emo writer and putting them here – my little, old Blogger blog that almost no one reads. Not because I have a point to make, but because I needed a space to breathe.
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Lately, I’ve been craving spaces where I don’t have to be useful but still feel like I can share if I want to. Where I’m not writing to explain something, solve something, or potentially earn anything. Just spaces where I can be a person. Quietly.
That feels more radical than it should. I suppose that's something for me to think about further when I've got a minute to navel-gaze freely.
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I’ve been noticing how often I brace myself for disappointment, even when no one’s let me down yet. There’s a scar in me that expects abandonment and another one that whispers I deserve it, so if it does happen, I'm not even surprised.
I don’t believe what those scars tell me about myself anymore. But some days, they still echo. Loudly, on occasion.
On that note, I've decided to put a pin in therapy for now after my therapist pulled a no-show last week, as well as didn't bother to communicate afterward.
One of the bigger, more pervasive issues in my life is people who don't treat me like a priority and show up for me the way that they should. For that reason, I really, really need my therapist to be reliable and communicative if I'm going to actually have one.
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Sometimes I think the quietest parts of me are the ones that hold the most truth. The parts that don’t want to perform, don’t want to teach, don’t want to be good. These aspects of who I am just want to exist, without apology or polish. I'm getting better at letting them.
There’s something sacred about writing things that aren’t meant for anyone but me. No optimization. No growth strategy. Just a timestamp on a mood, so I can remember who I was for a moment.
I should consider doing this again sometime.
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