01/02/2026
I live every day with my heart already breaking.
Not because something happened—
but because my body is convinced it’s about to.
I wake up anxious.
I love anxious.
I breathe anxious.
My chest is always tight, like I’m mid-goodbye I didn’t agree to.
Sometimes everything is good.
Better than good.
I laugh. I connect. I feel real.
For a moment, I believe maybe this time I’m safe.
My feet are on the ground.
My thoughts line up.
I’m present in my own life.
And then it flips.
No warning.
No argument.
No reason anyone else can see.
One second I’m okay.
The next, I’m watching myself exist from far away.
My body goes numb.
My voice sounds unfamiliar.
My face moves but it doesn’t feel like mine.
I’m still answering.
Still functioning.
But I’m not here.
Reality goes thin.
People don’t feel real.
Time bends and fractures.
When I care about someone, my nervous system panics.
Every pause feels like abandonment.
Every tone shift feels like danger.
Every silence feels like confirmation I was stupid for believing again.
Rejection isn’t sadness for me.
It’s nausea.
Shaking.
Dissolving.
My brain doesn’t process loss—
it reenacts it.
I cling because losing you feels like death.
I push because waiting for you to leave hurts worse.
Either way, I lose something.
Love doesn’t feel warm in my body.
It feels like a countdown.
And when it gets to be too much,
my brain pulls the plug.
Dissociation isn’t peace.
It’s evacuation.
I disappear to survive what I can’t hold.
Everything was amazing—
and then I’m gone.
People think I’ve gone cold.
They don’t see that I’m not here at all.
I lose hours.
I lose days.
I lose the version of me that was laughing five minutes ago.
And when I come back,
I’m confused.
Ashamed.
Trying to stitch myself back into conversations
that kept going without me.
People call me intense.
Too much.
Difficult to love.
What they don’t see is how hard I’m fighting not to disappear completely.
I don’t ruin things because I want to.
I ruin them because my body is always braced for impact.
I don’t ask for reassurance because I’m needy.
I ask because my nervous system is on fire
and one kind sentence can stop the bleeding for a second.
I go quiet not because I don’t care—
but because caring hurts so much
I have to numb out to survive it.
If you’ve never lived like this,
don’t minimize it.
Don’t romanticize it.
Don’t tell me it’s all in my head.
My head built this to keep me alive.
And if your chest feels heavy reading this—
that dizziness, that ache—
That’s my baseline.
Every day.
