ghostsivekept

[ghostsivekept]

I thought loneliness would find me here.

On this train, in this roomette, with nothing but the rhythm of the tracks and the soft hum of strangers passing by.

I packed for it, prepared for it, braced myself like it was a storm already on the radar.

But it didn’t come.

Instead, something gentler arrived.

A stillness.

A soft, unfamiliar warmth that didn’t demand anything of me.

Peace.

Not loud, not cinematic.

Just… present.

Like it’s been quietly waiting for me to notice it.

Sia’s “Alive” came through my hearing aids—crisp, defiant, soaring.

“I’m still breathing, I’m alive.”

And I felt it. All of it.

The past, the pain, the power of still being here.

Of not just surviving—but choosing to live.

My dad’s been on my mind constantly.

I keep catching glimpses of him in the rhythm of the train, the tilt of a stranger’s cap, the way the conductor walks the car.

There’s a clutch in my chest when I think of him—grief curled up behind my ribs.

But he’s here.

I know he’s here.

And I know he’s proud.

I’m not used to being alone without aching.

But here I am.

Staring out the window as the world rushes past,

feeling full instead of hollow.

I didn’t know it could be like this.

And now that I do—

I’ll carry it with me.

All of it.

The stillness. The sorrow. The survival.

Alive.

[ghostsivekept]

Reclaiming Structure

(or: why I used to hate schedules and what I know now)

There was a time when being asked to plan the day made me angry.

Not annoyed—angry.

Like something inside me was being caged.

And I used to think that made me broken. Disorganized.

“Bad at adulting.”

But here’s what I know now:

It wasn’t about the plan.

It was about how many plans in my life ignored me.

How many schedules erased my needs.

How often structure meant punishment—not support.

So yeah—when someone tried to schedule me, my body said run.

Not because they were being controlling…

But because control had always felt like harm.

I wasn’t reacting to the person.

I was reacting to every moment I’d felt powerless before.

But I’m not living in that version of me anymore.

Now I know:

Structure can be soft.

Routines can feel like care.

Rituals can be mine.

I don’t have to rebel to survive.

I don’t have to disappear inside someone else’s agenda.

I’m not being controlled—I’m choosing.

And that changes everything.

[ghostsivekept]

[ghostsivekept]

there is a kind of quiet

that only lives

where the cats are.

a rustle of fur,

a trill in the hallway,

a tail flick brushing past grief

like dust on the windowsill.

maddie reminds me

that joy is sudden,

loud,

and ridiculous—

that i, too,

am allowed to leap

without knowing

where i’ll land.

that i can meow back

and mean it.

pringle,

with her quiet gravity,

teaches me how to stay—

how to perch near someone in pain

without needing to fix it.

she’s been my shadow,

and sometimes,

my sun.

they didn’t ask to be healers.

they just are.

and in the soft thud of paws,

the warm press of a body against mine,

i remember:

i am safe here.

i am loved here.

i am still here.

[ghostsivekept]

Title: What I Couldn't See Then

I thought I was alone.

Trapped in silence,

screaming without sound,

waiting for someone to notice the ache behind my eyes.

But now I know—

Help wasn’t always loud.

It didn’t always come with answers or safety.

Sometimes it came as

a friend’s steady presence,

a note I wrote and forgot to throw away,

a future version of me whispering,

Keep going. You’ll get here.

I couldn’t see the love I deflected,

because I didn’t believe I deserved it.

I couldn’t trust hands that reached out,

because others had used theirs to hurt me.

But I see now—

the help I needed wasn’t just out there.

It was growing in me.

In the way I kept writing,

kept hoping,

kept asking questions that hurt to ask.

What I couldn’t see then

was that survival is a kind of help.

That numbness was a strategy, not a flaw.

That I was never broken—only buried.

And now that I’m here,

I can look back without flinching.

I can honor the version of me

who carried all that weight without recognition.

She was never weak.

She was never lost.

She just hadn’t found the light inside herself yet.

But I see it now.

And I’ll never stop seeing her again.

[ghostsivekept]

Welcome to the ghosts I’ve kept.

This space is for the things I used to hide.

The grief. The fire. The softness I thought made me weak.

I write about trauma, recovery, queerness, deafness, healing, memory, and all the versions of myself I’m still getting to know.

I’m not here to be polished. I’m here to be real.

You’ll find poems, journal entries, memoir fragments, emotional gut-checks, and ghosts I’m learning to let speak.

If something here resonates with you, I see you. If not, that’s okay too.

Still I rise.

These are the ghosts I’ve kept.

And I’m finally letting them rest.