I used to joke that I must have a sign on my back that says, “Kick me, I’m already down — and apparently I like it.” But after checking my baggage at the door in January, I’m rewriting that imaginary label. Now it reads: “Caution: contents unstable.” “May spontaneously combust.”
Because honestly? My internal wiring is so tangled and mis‑wired I short‑circuit constantly. I can go from a typical‑looking adult to a terrified child in seconds. I start out hoping, wanting, believing I deserve something good — and the moment I get it, fear hits like a punch. Something bad is coming. I’m going to regret this. That’s the script I was raised on.
Everything feels dangerous. Everything feels like it will hurt me, because it usually has. Men either treat me like a punching bag or a toy — fun until they’re bored, then gone without explanation. And every time, I’m left wondering what I did wrong, what flaw I exposed, what part of me made them leave.
People tell me I’m strong, but strong doesn’t feel good. Strong feels like bracing. Strong feels like pretending. Strong feels like walking through the world with every muscle locked, waiting for the next hit.
Anything outside my house counts as “public,” and in public I’m a statue — stiff, tense, ready to run. I roll my eyes so much they’re going to get stuck that way. It’s either that or let people see how scared I actually am.
I’ve learned to disguise my “oh shit” reactions with jokes — the kind of jokes that aren’t really funny but distract just enough. If I make them laugh, maybe they won’t notice the fear. Mistakes become punchlines. Panic becomes humor. Survival becomes a bit.
Over time, I’ve realized my quirks aren’t quirks at all — they’re reflexes. They’re the habits that kept me alive. And now that I see them clearly, I can see the pattern: I’ve been getting exactly what I expected, not what I wanted. I reached for “less” because “good” didn’t feel available. And with less comes chaos, disappointment, and the same old endings.
But writing feels different. Writing feels steady. Writing feels like the place where I can say who I want to be, even if I’m not there yet.
Maybe if I write it enough, believe it enough, practice it enough, my mind will finally catch up. Maybe I’ll reach a little further next time. Maybe I’ll stop settling for the bare minimum of kindness.
Or at the very least, maybe I’ll stop choosing the things that hurt.
Warning label has been updated, Proceed at your own risk,
K.
I'm Still Here. Somehow... 