There’s a moment when something small happens and you disappear. A word lands wrong. A silence stretches too long. A look that reminds you of a time when you felt erased, and suddenly you’re not here anymore. You’re somewhere else entirely, living as someone else entirely. The version of you who believed you were nothing, the version who couldn’t survive what happened… the version who learned to be small so you wouldn’t break.
And I’m fucking tired of being that version.
I want to end me.
Not my life… the life I’m living now is safer… It’s better… It’s full of people who show up differently than they did before, but I keep waking up as the person I was when everything felt unsafe. I keep reverting to survival mode when I don’t need to. I keep seeing ghosts in the faces of those who are present with me now.
In romantic relationships, friendships, and parenthood, this haunting steals everything. I cannot fully love, fully see, or fully appreciate the people in my life while I’m living as a ghost of who I used to be.
So I’m choosing to end myself. The versions of myself that don’t align with the life I’m living and the life I’m leaning toward.
Because presence is the only real life, and it starts when you stop living for the person you were.
This was a revelation I had this morning.
