self-therapization

[self-therapization]

2.16.25 | partial vent, reflective thinking, trendy journaling. i met my younger self for coffee today. 

i got there five minutes early,

but she’d already been there for fifteen. 

she wore that same navy blue star labs hoodie, and black target leggings i remember finding so much comfort in. 

i wore baggy jeans, a tube top and a shrug i knew she’d hope to wear one day. 

i could tell she didn’t recognize me. the look in her eyes wasn’t anything of envy, but i knew she never thought we’d get this far. 

i recognized her instantly. i knew it was her by the way she shrunk into herself at the sight of me. 

i looked forward to seeing where the conversation would go. 

her hair was parted to the left side, worn down and puffed and frizzed. she never knew how to handle her curls or bleached highlights.  

my hair was up in a claw clip, setting my own curls after a shower; remnants of hair dye faded just above my ears. 

she’d ordered a caramel blended coffee. 

i ordered an iced honey matcha. 

i started the conversation, knowing she’d be a bit too timid to know where to start. i asked how old she was. 

fifteen was a confident statement to her, and i admired that. 

she stared at me shocked when i told her i was freshly twenty one. 

she’d asked if i had anything to drink or smoke yet. when i nodded, the look in her eye pooled with something of disgust. curiosity spun beneath that, too. 

she asked how i could stomach it. she asked how i could possibly take intoxication after the life we’d endured. 

it’s not too common to find two DUI survivors at a coffee shop, especially when there was a fatality. yet there we both sat, two survivors at the same table. 

she asked how i could to that to our friend who’d passed. how i could handle the pressure and the weight of it. 

and i told her it wasn’t fair if i didn’t live my life just because a drunk driver tried to ruin it. i told her that the guilt of taking steps forward gets easier after a while. 

the disgust settled to something like respect. she took a breath. 

she’d asked me if it gets easier, and i could tell it was a question she’d wanted to ask since we set the time to meet up. 

i told her that trauma isn’t easy to begin with. it gets easier to understand how it impacts us, and to understand who we are with it; the trouble comes from believing that people will understand it, too. rarely anyone does, and that’s okay. 

she thanked me, and apologized immediately after. 

i forgot just how bad that habit of mine had been, to apologize for absolutely anything. 

i changed the topic, asked about what was happening in her life; who she was talking to, who she was friends with. 

it was a challenge not to cringe at the answers. 

she asked who of these people we were still friends with, and i replied with maybe two of them. 

we both passed an awkward grin. 

she asked who i was friends with, who i was talking to, where we’d end up. 

and i told her that it was a tough route to get to where we were, and some days are harder than others, but i am unbelievably grateful to the friends i have today, and the experiences i’ve grown from. 

she asked if i was single. 

i nodded with a smile. 

she didn’t seem too happy about it, but i told her just to wait. 

finding love in ourself was something i never expected at that age. 

at the end of the conversation, she asked if we were still making music, and i nodded again. 

i said it was the best we’ve felt about it in a while. 

the look she gave me from that was all i needed from that conversation. it was all i needed to keep going. 

and i hope we meet for coffee again soon. 

[self-therapization]

2.8.25 | a journal entry from october 18th, 2024:

i entered the familiar building reminded of my freshman year—the elevator chime remains a nostalgic song, and the space smells the same.

tell me how it’s possible to leave the building feeling like i was back in my freshman year again.

i’m somehow back to a grounded state i haven’t been in since the last time i felt his hands on my face.

the first time i was kissed, and the last time i felt deserving of it.

my first kiss. wild.

a wild and puzzling time to feel so connected with my body.

“i feel so sober,” i remember telling him, panicked and spiraled and scared to scare him off.

and he just proceeded to tell me that it was okay. i was okay.

i held his face between each hand, too nervous to touch his cheek to my palm yet—too scared to scare him off. only my thumb and pointer fingers touched his expression.

still, we remained connected in eye contact, and the trace of his thumb against my torso.

i hesitated, tasting the moment—tasting the moment and savoring its flavor for what felt like the first time ever.

and i took him in, like i’d never been able to before—like i’d never get the chance to again.

“is this okay?” a question in reference to my touch on his face; an action i feared would be too much.

an action i feared would scare him off.

but he wasn’t, even if my ask was whispered so quiet; even with my fear shone through my gentle grasp and softened words.

he proceeded to tell me that it was fine. it was okay.

i was okay.

and despite his departure,

despite his fuck boy mentality and the hurt i ensued, i’m grateful for the recollection.

that moment stands as a reminder that the present isn’t scary.

i may have been stuck in the dark for much too long, but i am so deserving of finding my light.

i am deserving of the beautiful moments.

and i deserve to be present and grounded.

[self-therapization]

2.8.25 | a journal entry from november 5th, 2024:

it’s been two years. this is not the trauma i thought my body would remember, yet i feel you in my bones.

i wanted to go to lincoln park today,

i wonder why.

but i didnt, and you didnt come to mind,

until i saw your silhouette walk out right in front of me.

and i knew it wasn’t you.

his hair was too long, but he sure did walk like you.

i didn’t recognize his backpack—his side profile, the shake of his laughter,

but i found myself walking a little faster.

it’s a ghost town, the streets of your campus, the streets of a city we have to share. your face is a phantom figure i somehow see through every window.

your ghost somehow keeps my loneliness company, and your shadow is a blanket i want to get rid of—i wish to rid myself of this emotional attachment.

i found myself chasing after this stranger, a pure figment of my imagination, someone i morphed to resemble my projections of you; you’re simply fiction at this point.

maybe i feel remorse for my last words, or i don’t feel like i’ll ever find anyone after you; i’ll settle for crumbs before im introduced to the full meal.

am i truly only meant to starve? to lick my plate clean like i’ll never eat again? and to live with the lingering aftertaste?

perhaps it’s the fear of that alone that pushed me to follow you—to chase your ghost and act like i’m so far removed from you.

it hit me this morning that i’m the one keeping you alive. i see your ghost because—honestly, i don’t know why.

i don’t want to stay stuck. i want to taste life, to feel loved the way i love. if i can feel the way i love, just wait until i can feel that love back.

if im stepping into the future, i can’t hold myself to the same standards i did in the past.

if i did, i would be disregarding every step forward i've taken since, and i was not made to shrink.

if i don't want to keep living in the past, i need to fight for my future, and that’s a fight i’ll have to make in the present.

how do i fight for that?

unclear.

i think i need to accept that you’ll take up a little corner of my thoughts; a footnote in my mind.

at least, for now.

i deleted your contact today, and im proud of myself for that.

two years later, and i’m still allowed to cherish the night for what it was—i am still allowed to cherish you for who you were to me.

i learned a lot from you, and i've learned even more since you.

you were never meant to see me at my best, because if you were, i would’ve never lost you to find my best.

i would’ve never lost you to find me.

pain is meant to be felt; and this pain is something i didn’t feel through.

maybe that’s how i fight for my future.

at least, maybe, it’s a good place to start.

[self-therapization]

2.8.25 | train thoughts, brain dump, depressive episode?

it takes a lot to get me out of my apartment sometimes, even if it’s something i’ve been looking forward to.

and today, my day was lined with exciting activities; shopping sprees and coffees and catching up with friends over fond shows.

the plans resided at the end of a long week for a reason: they were things to keep me going.

they propelled my steps out my front door, and curled eager fingers around the knob to say goodbye.

a pull and a creak and a click and a lock—i had left my room.

the world beyond my front door suddenly seemed sullen, painted in colors i found all too familiar. they were hues of depression.

they were stings of tears and strokes of something heavy.

each step after that was shackled, chains marring both ankles and bricks stacking just beyond.

but i’ve been looking forward to today. i must keep going.

stepping outside almost felt worse. sprinkling from the muddied skies above were something the clouds wished would be spring, but the weather deemed it too cold to be so. it was too light to be considered snow, though.

and i sit with the thoughts i try to numb. i sit with tears i try to stale and a smile i need to force.

isn't it better to hide it? that’s what i've taught myself to do, at least.

that’s what i’ve been told to do, at least.

[self-therapization]

1.28.25 | short story, journal entry, food-for-thought.

am i scared of failure? or scared of how my failures will be judged by other people?

where does the line between opinion and judgement get drawn? it’s a question i have been chewing on for a minute. 

why does judgement deserve the fear i give it? it’s a burning thought i can’t seem to defuse. 

despite my efforts, all efforts i have, the fear has a tighter grip than i’ve ever admitted. quite frankly, i begin to question whether i have ever faced the fact. 

how can a person face a fear when its choking them? when the grip becomes suffocating, you begin to reflect on whose hand steals your breath and drains your comfortability. 

isn’t it your own hand? 

the weight of the moment allows me to push back the ask. pressing as it is, i find ways to ignore it. i can always find ways to ignore it if i choose to. 

just as i can choose to release that self–inflicted chokehold.

the air was suddenly thick. thick enough to swallow; thick enough to build the muscle in my calf as it bounced against the carpeted floors. 

and you could ask why i was so antsy, so anxious in that small room i’d reserved for the afternoon. one could ask what i was doing, but the honest answer would be that it was my own doing. 

i was in class. 

not only was i in class, but i chose to perform in front of said class. a class for writing—more specifically, songwriting. 

this is a passion, confidence pitched from my right, it’s a privilege to share your writing. 

and the stringed instrument i picked up for self–accompaniment felt like a noble sword. the strumming pattern felt like routine, and the melody was memorized, prideful. the words fell from my lips in the string of a song. 

but what if they hate it? judgement intercepted, a voice loud from my left—so loud, it broke the veil i’d been shielded by. suddenly, i wasn’t holding something noble, rather than a weapon to wield on myself. i stuttered, stumbled, and tried to pick up the song where i was. 

i had failed. 

i kept going. 

judgement rang in my ear, fought my presentation, and stripped me naked and vulnerable. it reminded me that silence was a better privilege than performing; to hide and to still and to quiet were what i knew kept me in safety. 

was that safety better than judgement? it certainly felt like it. 

i stuttered again, ice spreading to my shaky fingers and infecting my bloodstream. you already messed up, judgement sang an honest song from my left. they want you to stop. they want you to shut up. 

and before i knew it, i finished the song. shaking more than i had been, i did my best to hide it from my classmates. to hide, like i’d taught myself to. 

positive feedback hummed like static beneath my panic. my immediate response was to lull the tremble that spread beneath my vibrato and across every limb. i did not retain the encouragement. and before i knew it, i stared at my own hand around my own neck, curling like a habit into the chokehold i allowed. 

i failed. 

i had failed, and it reminded me why i hesitate to perform in the first place; why i don’t share lyrics, or writing, or dare to speak every passing thought i struggle to share. 

fear.

am i scared of it? of failure? of the feeling oiling my bones and dressing me with something stalling?

am i scared of judgement? of my classmates? of the words i mistake for lies and force into static? 

i reflect back on whether judgement deserves the fear that i give it. i could hide forever, or i could attempt to defy it. 

perhaps i could view that performance as a form of strength, of defiance. if i sit with that and allow it, the draping of failure can undress itself from my shoulders. 

the lies i mistook for my classmates feedback were now identified as the voice from my left.  

i know i messed up the song. i had failed, and my classmates remained a witness. 

but more importantly, most importantly, i kept going. 

that alone is defiance enough. 

that, and the fact that i made you all witness this as well. 

let this stand as public failure, something sacrificial. vulnerability. 

let this story i’ve told stand as my strength.

strength to defy judgement.