sentimental-writer25

[sentimental-writer25]

PROLOGUE: Usually when I write, it is very easy for me to keep going once I’ve started. 

It has been over 2 years now. All I have is an idea and fragments of memories that I am trying to piece together in order to write down my story. 

I am always so ready to tell people my story. I am far too open about it if I am being honest. 

But to write it down, from my thoughts to paper—- to put it poetically--

Nothing about it was poetic. 

The story is pathetic. I was pathetic... 

The little girl who was so excited to grow up and become a strong woman, ….just wasn't. 

Usually when I write, it is very easy for me to keep going when the idea comes to my head. This one has been circulating for a while, I can't even seem to type down a word. 

Two years have gone by, I am ashamed 

I am so ready to tell people my story. But if I do, will they only see a coward? 

MAIN STORY: 

It’s strange how someone can leave but still take so much with them—things such as who I was, who I thought I could be. 

There are scars, some I can see, others I just feel. The ones you can’t see are the hardest to explain because when I tell people “it’s over— it’s not happening anymore” — it should mean it’s over and won’t affect me anymore. 

But it’s not, it’s never really over.  Not when you’ve spent so much time being torn down that you don’t know how to put yourself back together.

No one else acknowledged what he did to me, therefore hold him accountable. No one batted an eye especially when I started spiraling hard. 

Yet my body and mind certainly acknowledge it.

Sometimes I think the pain is gone but then the smallest of things will happen to me and suddenly im not able to sleep for days. I’m clutching my chest not able to breathe…. To feel my heat beating out of my chest. 

Shocked by how much additional trauma comes from being traumatized. And this isn’t something people are told. 

And it feels like an insult to injury. Having gone through something, thinking it’s over. And then being washed over with feelings of isolation, feelings of being lost, feeling worthless at times,  dysregulated - even more hypervigilant, etc, etc….

And this— it’s lasted… and the second I felt it, I knew one thing: This— this gonna affect everything forever. 

I find myself thinking; is there some significance to this? Trying to find meaning within it all 

When we watch movies, read books, we are always shown that people overcome their traumas. We are told they preserve in spite of everything. They come out on top, every time. Without set back. 

But sometimes it feels as if im just composed of the memories of what I went through. 

I am composed of fear, regret, sadness….

And it’s been two years. 

Nothing is actively going on

And then I think I’m my own sickness. I am my own ailment. 

Despite this…

I wish I could go back, I wish I could go back before anything happened.

Tell myself to run, tell myself to stand up for myself and not let fear get the better of me. I will tell myself that it wasn’t my fault. God knows I would be the only one telling me that back then. 

Looking at her— is like looking into a mirror. she’s there, her face is a warped reflection of my own— the same nose, mouth, and eyes— but they are empty. The light cannot be seen in her eyes. She just stares at me, not speaking. But her silence fills the entire room.  

I’ve held onto her tighter than I thought. 

But she’ll look at me, teary eyed.

Wishing that she was me instead. Wishing to be out of it already. To be supposedly past it all. 

She’s haunting me, reminding me of the past. She feeds onto my longing to rewrite the past, give it a different ending. But I can’t go back 

I keep reaching back for her because all that time she was reaching for me…

Epilogue: 

Usually when I start writing, it’s easy for me to keep going. We all do what we can to endure 

I am the furthest away from myself from two years ago. 

The feelings linger and they always will. 

It is not easy to forget the thing that nearly killed you. 

I hope the endless falling feels effortless floating. I wish everyone a safe return to who they were and who they can be.

[sentimental-writer25]

No One Likes A Mad Woman (You Made Her Like That)

Since her creation, people have frowned upon Ophelia. Whispers about her tragic life.

 She has been labeled an array of terms, “passive” “erratic” “naive”, but crazy?….. Crazy was the one that constantly stuck. 

People don’t care about what she went through—only that she lost her mind. That she was "irrational," that she was "a mess." They reduce her down to hysteria, to a fragile girl who couldn’t handle the weight of the world.

As if her pain was self-inflicted. As if the world didn’t play a heavy role in her downward spiral. 

But Ophelia wasn’t weak.

 She wasn’t just some pitiful girl lost to love. She was a woman slowly, intentionally driven to the edge by the people around her. They chipped away at her until there was nothing left.

But look at Hamlet, her counterpart. When he acts erratic, the world calls him brilliant. “He’s grieving,” they say. “He’s calculated– profound.” No one dares questions his madness. No one ever tells him his pain is meaningless. 

No—he’s the tortured genius…the tragic prince. His suffering makes him poetic. His outbursts are seen as evidence of depth, of intellect, of visceral agony. People sympathize with him and even go as far as to admire him.

But Ophelia? 

 They dismiss her, because what is a woman’s suffering compared to a man’s brilliance? 

Hamlet’s grief makes him complex. Ophelia’s makes her hysterical.

In a world dominated by men, Ophelia’s feelings don’t matter. Her voice doesn’t matter. She is told how to act, how to feel, how to think. And when she dares to speak up—when she questions the world around her—she is called mad and silenced.

How many times can a person be told their emotions are invalid before they start to believe it? How many times can someone be ignored before they begin to erase themselves?

Expression, emotion—these are the ultimate acts of humanity. 

And yet, for all the world says that women are "too emotional," their emotions are the first thing dismissed. 

If your feelings are never acknowledged, never respected, never heard, then what’s left of you?

Ophelia wasn’t inhuman, nor was she fragile. She was complex, layered, and alive. She had every right to speak up, to feel, to scream if she needed to. 

But in a world that refuses to listen, what choice did she have? She was bound to disappear, to be faded out of existence. 

And her body—floating in the water—became not just a symbol of her demise, but a haunting image of what happens to women who are rendered voiceless.

Her death wasn’t just the result of water pulling her under. It was the voices around her pushing her in.

 The water didn’t kill her; it simply took what was left.

The tragedy of Ophelia is not just that she died. It’s that she was erased long before her final breath. 

And the worst part? The world barely noticed.

-------

And in a world where a woman is allowed to speak up for herself. In a world where she had the capabilities to say no. If Ophelia had the tools to speak up… what would happen? What would happen to a woman like that? -------- A woman is told, "If only you had said no," they speak as if refusal will protect her. As if resistance alone is enough to save her. 

But a woman can say no. She can fight, she can reject, she can speak to others about her experience—but men will always find a way to punish her for it.

It doesn’t stop there because she is also told "If  you had fought harder," "If  you had been less trusting," THEN, only then will people have sympathy for her, let alone believe her. 

Women are expected to defend themselves, to fight back no matter the circumstances.  Yet if a woman doesn’t fight hard enough—if she freezes, if she is caught off guard, if she is overpowered—people blame her. 

They say she should have done more, as if survival is always a choice.

She has to be either completely weak or completely strong—nothing in between. If she fights back, she is aggressive. If she doesn’t, she is helpless. No matter what, she is judged.

 "If only you had seen it coming."

It almost sounds like sympathy. Almost. But when the smoke is lifted, the truth is clear: it’s blame. 

The truth is that she did see it coming. But was her curse.

Cassandra– Cassandra  was chosen by Apollo himself, blessed by the gods, gifted with foresight—the ability to see the future play out before it even began.

But in exchange for this gift, he expected her to reciprocate his feelings. Thinking that if he gifted her she would happily comply. 

And she said no. She rejected his advances. 

And for that, she did not lose her gift—no, Apollo was far more cruel than that. He let her keep it. He let her keep every vision, every undeniable truth, every precise vision… But he stripped her of the one thing that made it matter–  belief.

She would be right about everything. But no one would ever believe her.

She was condemned, not just to witness catastrophe, but to be ridiculed for warning of it. 

She saw Troy’s ruin flicker across her eyes, and saw the gods turning their backs. She saw the ends of lives across the land. 

She would plead to the people to believe her, telling them that if they don’t listen then they will be doomed. 

Yet they laughed at her, ridiculed her, dismissed her. 

By all signs of the universe, by fate itself, she was right.

But a man had cursed her to be wrong forever.

What is the point of knowing the truth if no one will listen? What is the point of being right if the world refuses to see it?

She saw it so clearly—it is undeniable, inescapable. Yet no one will believe her. Not because it is unclear, not because it lacks proof, but because one man decided it should be that way. One man’s word, one man’s denial, one man’s power was enough to turn everyone against her.

That is the curse she is forced to carry.

A god decided she would never be believed, and so she wasn’t.

When fate played out to prove her visions to be correct… did people finally believe her then....?

She was right again, and again, and again.

And still, she was wrong— because no one believed her. 

Because a woman’s word against a man’s will never be more powerful. 

-------

Men haunt the narrative of women's lives. 

It's the ghost that ravages the lives of any woman born into this world. 

Her mind will never be empty because a voice will always be whispering telling her how to be. How to feel. How to react. How to be a better woman. How to be more of a woman. How to be less of a woman. 

Her house will be rearranged every time she comes back. She will put things back to the way things were, hopeful that they will stay put. But she will come back like clockwork to realize that– there is no safe space for her to rest– to be– to exist. 

What is solely hers– never existed. 

[sentimental-writer25]

Men haunt the narrative of women's lives. 

It's the ghost that ravages the lives of any woman born into this world. 

Her mind will never be empty because a voice will always be whispering telling her how to be. How to feel. How to react. How to be a better woman. How to be more of a woman. How to be less of a woman. 

Her house will be rearranged every time she comes back. She will put things back to the way things were, hopeful that they will stay put. But she will come back like clockwork to realize that– there is no safe space for her to rest– to be– to exist. 

What is solely hers– never existed. 

[sentimental-writer25]

A woman is told, "If only you had said no," they speak as if refusal will protect her. As if resistance alone is enough to save her. But a woman can say no. She can fight, she can reject, she can speak to others about her experience—but men will always find a way to punish her for it.

It doesn’t stop there because she is also told "If  you had fought harder," "If  you had been less trusting," THEN, only then will people have sympathy for her, let alone believe her. 

Women are expected to defend themselves, to fight back no matter the circumstances. But not everyone can. Sometimes, the fear is too overwhelming. Sometimes, the situation is impossible to escape. Yet if a woman doesn’t fight hard enough—if she freezes, if she is caught off guard, if she is overpowered—people blame her. They say she should have done more, as if survival is always a choice.

She has to be either completely weak or completely strong—nothing in between. If she fights back, she is aggressive. If she doesn’t, she is helpless. No matter what, she is judged. "If only you had seen it coming."

It almost sounds like sympathy. Almost. But when the smoke is lifted, the truth is clear.

The truth is that she did see it coming. But was her curse.

Cassandra– Cassandra  was chosen by Apollo himself, blessed by the gods, gifted with foresight—the ability to see the future play out before it even began.

But in exchange for this gift, he expected her to reciprocate his feelings. 

And she said no. She rejected his advance. 

And for that, she did not lose her gift—no, Apollo was far more cruel than that. He let her keep it. He let her keep every vision, every undeniable truth, every precise vision… But he stripped her of the one thing that made it matter–  belief.

She would be right about everything. And no one would ever believe her.

She was condemned, not just to witness catastrophe, but to be ridiculed for warning of it. She saw Troy’s ruin flicker across her eyes, and saw the gods turning their backs. 

She would plead to the people to believe her, telling them that if they don’t listen then they will be doomed. 

But they laughed at her, ridiculed her, dismissed her. She was called a man woman. 

By all signs of the universe, by fate itself, she was right.

But a man had cursed her to be wrong forever.

[sentimental-writer25]

Women are expected to defend themselves, to fight back no matter the circumstances. But not everyone can. Sometimes, the fear is too overwhelming. Sometimes, the situation is impossible to escape. Yet if a woman doesn’t fight hard enough—if she freezes, if she is caught off guard, if she is overpowered—people blame her. They say she should have done more, as if survival is always a choice.

She has to be either completely weak or completely strong—nothing in between. If she fights back, she is aggressive. If she doesn’t, she is helpless. No matter what, she is judged.

[sentimental-writer25]

When I look into the mirror, she’s there, her face is a warped reflection of my own— the same nose, mouth, and eyes— but they are empty. The light cannot be seen in her eyes. She just stares at me, not speaking. But her silence fills the entire room.

I’ve held onto her tighter than I thought.

She’s haunting me, remaining me of the past. She feeds onto my longing to rewrite the past, give it a different ending. But I can’t go back

I keep reaching back for her because all that time she was reaching for me…

[sentimental-writer25]

When Ophelia finally fell apart, it wasn’t because she was weak. It was because the world around her wouldn’t let her be strong. They dismissed her, ignored her, until she couldn’t take it anymore. Her death, floating down that river, wasn’t some beautiful tragedy. It was the result of a world that didn’t listen, that didn’t care.

[sentimental-writer25]

It’s strange how someone can leave but still take so much with them—who I was, who I thought I could be. There are scars, some I can see, others I just feel. The ones you can’t see are the hardest to explain because people think “it’s over” should mean it’s over. But it’s not. Not when you’ve spent so much time being torn down that you don’t know how to put yourself back together.

It’s not him anymore. It’s what he left behind.

It’s the way I freeze when someone raises their voice, even when it’s not at me. The way I assume failure before I even try, second-guessing every decision because I was taught that my instincts were wrong. It’s scrolling endlessly, staying silent, making myself smaller and smaller until I feel like I might disappear—because taking up space feels selfish, audacious, wrong.

I don’t see his face in the mirror anymore. I see the way he shaped mine. I see someone who got through it, who survived, but hasn’t yet learned how to live beyond it. Someone stuck in the aftermath, where the ghosts are not him but everything I lost because of him. My confidence, my voice, my sense of safety, even my own reflection—it’s all gone. What’s left is someone I don’t recognize. Someone I am afraid of and deeply disturbed by.

The haunting happens in the quiet moments. When I’m alone, his voice fills the silence. White noise that drowns out everything else.

When I walk into a room, it’s not him I’m afraid of seeing—it’s the smallness he made me feel, the way I shrink in corners, the way I instinctively make myself invisible so no one notices me.

Ghosts aren’t supposed to stay forever. They linger because they’re waiting for you to let go. But letting go isn’t as easy as people think. Especially when others don’t even acknowledge what happened. It’s hard to heal when there are no apologies, no accountability, no one saying, “I’m sorry he did that to you.” Instead, there’s silence, disbelief, and people defending the person who hurt me. Like I’m the one in the wrong for speaking up. Like it’s easier to blame me than to accept what he did.

And so the shame builds. I feel guilty for feeling this way after two years. I wonder if it’s still him holding me back, or if it’s me. Maybe I point the finger at him because it’s easier to blame him.

Because if I accept that I’m the one holding myself here—if I admit that—it means I’m to blame now. And the same hatred I feel toward him, I’d have to turn on myself.

The truth is, it is me now. And it’s also not. Trauma works like quicksand. You survive it, but it doesn’t let go easily. My body remembers even when my mind wants to move on. The hypervigilance, the isolation, the exhaustion—my body feels it. It lives it.

And while no one sees evidence of what happened, I feel it. Every day.

I want to move forward. I do. But I’m still here, fighting something invisible, something no one pats me on the back for. And some days, that fight feels harder than what I survived in the first place. Because at least back then, it wasn’t just me against me.

Maybe this will affect everything forever. Maybe it’s too big to ever fully let go of. But I think what I’m learning—slowly—is that healing isn’t about erasing what happened. It’s about learning how to live alongside it. To stop fighting the ghosts and start believing that I can exist, that I can take up space, that I deserve to. Even if it feels impossible right now.

Because I made it out. I survived. And that has to mean something. Even if it doesn’t feel like enough yet.

[sentimental-writer25]

When I was a child, there was always a ghost standing near the entry to my bedroom. He just stood there, tall man, never said a thing or bothered anyone. He just stood there.

Sometimes I would pass by him, unflinching. Other times I would be too scared to close my eyes at night thinking that he would enter my room and finally carry out the feeling we know all ghosts have within them because that is what we are taught, malice.

We are taught that ghosts are evil, they intentionally scare us, they are seeking some retribution or seeking to disrupt the living.

But when I would run past him, I never felt it. But when I was trying to go to sleep, my better judgement failed me.

From there, I never knew what ghosts intended to do with me.

As the years went on, he began to look different. He no longer stood near my bedroom door.

It felt as if he was following me. Not in any discernible way. I would just feel his presence slightly in the quietness of a room. I would turn and no one would be there.

I was not threatened by this. It was a constant, rather scary at times, but a constant.

This went on for years. I would feel different types of ghosts surrounding me

[sentimental-writer25]

Usually when I write, it is very easy for me to keep going when I start. 

It has been over four months now. All I have is an idea and fragments of memories that I am trying to piece together. I am always so ready to tell people my story. I am too open about it if I am being honest. But to put it poetically-- Nothing about it was poetic. The story is pathetic. I was pathetic... The little girl who was so excited to grow up and become a strong woman, to be someone who never let anyone walk all over her, to hurt her....just wasn't. She was not strong. Usually when I write, it is very easy for me to keep going when the idea comes to my head. This one has been circulating for a while, I can't even seem to type down a word. Four months have gone by, I am ashamed I am so ready to tell people my story. But if I do, will they only see a coward?

[sentimental-writer25]

It’s not a matter of killing it, or getting rid of it, or pretending she’s gone. It’s about learning how to live with her haunting me. To feel her in every room but not let her consume me. She will linger, as ghosts do, but it’s not a bad thing. Ghosts aren’t meant to hurt us— they remind us of what we’ve survived.

A few years ago I moved into a new apartment. I thought it was haunted. I spent the first few hours alone in the apartment, huddled near the wall of my new room. Trying to hear the ghosts that I thought were there. Every time I looked down the narrow hallway, I would try to catch the figure haunting the corner. 

I even went as far as to research the apartment, the land, everything. Trying to see if anyone had died here maybe. I was assured no such thing happened here. And I believed it. 

Because, I know, as well as you know, ghosts aren’t really held down to a place or a building. They are tied to memories, moments, and they reside in parts of us, sometimes parts that are hard to reach. 

They follow us everywhere we go

[sentimental-writer25]

Everyday I stand in my room alone. Yet I'm simultaneously standing in the same room with the very same person who nearly killed me. 

When I rub the steam off the mirror, all I see is me. 

I walk home and the shadow on the concrete is just mine.

Memories haunt people. Who you used to be haunts you. 

I am a ghost haunting myself. 

I want to get rid of it. But how do I get rid of something that’s already dead?

We are told when something dies. It’s dead, it’s got forever. But here I am trying to kill something that is no longer alive. 

You cannot kill a memory. 

You cannot kill an experience. 

You cannot kill the feeling of not knowing what to do with your life. 

You cannot kill the way you can’t get out of bed. 

You cannot kill the loneliness that comes with being there but not being seen. 

You cannot kill it. 

You cannot kill a ghost. 

You cannot kill something that’s already dead.