Here, the darkness doesn’t hide—it tells the story.
This isn’t a place for easy stories. There aren’t clean endings here, or quick fixes. What I write lives in the places people don’t want to look. The thoughts that spin and never stop. The bodies that won’t do what they’re supposed to. The way survival gets tied up in meds, in scars, in cycles that don’t break. These aren’t lessons. They’re maps of what it feels like to live inside the mess.
Every piece looks different, but they all come from the same place. Pressure that never lets up. Loops that get louder the more you fight them. Survival tied to things that help and hurt at the same time. Some days it’s sharp. Some days it’s heavy. But it always circles back. There’s no neat ending, because life doesn’t give us that. It stays messy. It spirals. It aches. So do we.
This is the point of it—to let the weight exist without softening it. To write the parts that don’t wrap up. The parts that cut too close. The parts that people don’t say out loud. If you’re here, you already know what that feels like. So this is for you—for all of us still in it, unpolished, unfiltered, holding onto whatever truth we can find in the middle of the storm.
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There is hope