My mind has tried to erase me in ways that seem reasonable. Not dramatic, not loud, just persistent enough to feel justified.
I push against myself to feel something because numbness feels like disappearing. When everything flattens out, even discomfort becomes proof of presence, proof that I haven’t been worn down completely.
Most of this battle happens inside me. Testing limits. Circling the same thoughts and standing at the edge of questions that never get answered. I know what’s good for me. That’s never been the problem. The problem is how easily my own mind turns against me anyway.
Self-sabotage feels familiar. Predictable. Almost honest.
If I choose the damage, I don’t have to be caught off guard by it. I can brace myself. I can laugh at the wreckage instead of admitting how exhausted I am from rebuilding the same places over and over again.
I carry marks of where I’ve been. Not as trophies, not as warnings. Just evidence. Evidence that I’ve faced my worst impulses and kept going anyway. My heart may feel unreliable, worn thin, but it’s still beating. That counts.
Some days, I wake up already questioning my right to exist. The question arrives fully formed, as if it’s earned the right to be there. I ask why, again and again, knowing the answer may never come.
But asking is resistance—awareness under the noise.
I’ve learned this much: familiar doesn’t mean true. Predictable doesn’t mean honest. Cruel thoughts are not clarity.
Pain doesn’t get to be my baseline. Numbness doesn’t get my consent. Thoughts don’t get to vote on whether I stay.
I am not fixed. I am not finished.
I am here.
And that is not negotiable.