The worst part of trying to cope and heal is the urge to overshare. The need to be understood, to explain your invisible quirks. It all comes out in a rush — a water‑main break of words — and when it’s over, you realize you should’ve stopped an entire conversation ago.
I don’t overshare because I want attention. I do it because silence feels like being misunderstood on purpose. If I don’t explain myself, I start to believe I don’t exist correctly in other people’s minds, and that feels worse than regret. I apologize for flaws no one can see, the ones I don’t wear like a coat but still carry under my skin.
I’m afraid of being seen as a wallflower, a geek, a dork — somehow flawed and unworthy. But those aren’t flaws; they’re scars. Some deeper than others, but still mine. And yet, oversharing makes me feel exposed, unsafe, too open. I want to be understood and accepted, but instead I end up feeling like I pushed people away. The loneliness that follows can reopen wounds I thought had finally healed.
And after the words are out — after I’ve laid everything bare like evidence — there’s that familiar silence. Not the comfortable kind. The kind that echoes. I replay every sentence, cataloging each truth that didn’t need to be proven. I wonder if I made myself smaller by trying so hard to be understood, if I handed something tender to someone who didn’t know how to hold it.
Maybe the lesson isn’t to stop being honest. Maybe it’s to stop believing honesty requires full access. Maybe I don’t need to translate every scar to earn my place in the room. Maybe existing quietly, without explanation, doesn’t mean I disappear — it just means I’m choosing myself.
Still unsure of myself,
K.
I'm Still Here. Somehow... 