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I’m so small in here. It’s dark. I can’t see. All these big feelings swirl around me. I cry, I scream, I beg, I plead. I’m trying so hard to be heard, but I’m trapped down by your feet. Why can’t you hear me? Why can’t you help? Why won’t you reach down and pick me up from this deep place? I’m tiny. I’m scared. I’m coming apart. I need you to see me so you can save your heart. Sometimes you feel me, but you push me away. So I hide and wait for a safer day, a moment to reach a

I see you staring into the distance, trying to form thoughts. I see you trying your hardest to process and tell the world your part. But you see, dear— when I am here, I hold all there is to know. And I keep you from reaching the things that give your mind its flow. I know you want this box back, but you can’t have it right now. You’re too overwhelmed, too disheveled, for me to allow that right now. And I know you’re frustrated that I think I know what is best. But I’ve been

Oh this boy, when will he learn? He needs me to watch for him at every turn. He’s talking and laughing, having a good time… I need to remind him of all that people hide. You’re useless. You’re pathetic. You’re weak. You’re someone no one hears, no matter how loud you speak. You didn’t deserve care then. You don’t deserve care now. Stop letting your heart slip out of your mouth. Stop trusting these people, they will only hurt you. Stop believing anyone could ever love you. Sto

I just finished re-reading my post “I’m Sorry,” and now I’m sitting here crying. A part of me desperately wishes I could rewind time. And another part of me knows I had to learn these lessons the way I did: in some shape, some form, some sequence I never would’ve chosen but somehow still needed. And I got to learn them with the most kind-hearted, tender person I have ever met. I am grateful for that. For growing alongside her. For experiencing a level of care that reshaped me

I think it’s important to talk about my part in the dynamic with my first therapist. I’m not sure I fully have the words to describe everything, but I’m going to try my best. I had never in my life been cared for the way she cared for me. I’d never felt nurtured before. Seen. Heard. Understood in the way she managed to understand me. I had never trusted anyone enough to share my story either. Honestly, I didn’t think my story mattered enough to tell. My body had absolutely no

I’m feeling really disconnected from myself and from life today. It’s one of those days where I blinked and suddenly it was the end of the work day, and I’m honestly not sure where the hours went. I just got home, and my wife and I are babysitting our two-year-old niece tonight, so the evening will probably be filled with tiny tea parties and watching Finding Nemo on repeat. If I’m able to form any real thoughts later, I’ll be back. But if I disappear for a bit, it’s just bec

It’s strange how two experiences can both hurt you and still feel nothing alike in your body. I’ve been thinking about that, the difference between a wound and a trauma. The difference between someone who harms you and owns it, and someone who harms you and then lies about it to protect themselves. My first therapist made mistakes. I’m not going to sugarcoat that. Things happened that left me with pain I still carry, and probably more trauma than either of us knew how to hold

Vulnerability has always been hard for me. I’ve always been able to push myself to be vulnerable because I know that’s what it takes in therapy to get anywhere. But it’s always been hard. And now, it’s amplified. After opening up, I have to move through all the defenses that immediately pop up afterward. I’m exhausted. I’m angry. And with everything in me, I hope the board makes my second therapist take courses on ethical care so she has to hold herself accountable to better

I’m kind of just out of it today. And I’m frustrated. I have therapy, and, as usual, I’m blank. No thoughts. No brain cells. Just this quiet heaviness that makes me want to curl up and cry. I envy the people who can walk into therapy and just… talk. The ones who can lay everything out, or at least recap their week without freezing. And maybe envy isn’t the right word, because there’s no bitterness in it. It’s more of a longing. A small ache. Something in me wishing I could do

Last night was everything I needed. Company of people I’ve missed dearly. A lot of laughs and great food. If you haven’t gone yet, Central Pizza in Broussard is incredible. The place was packed full and the service was still top tier. If you know me, you know there’s nothing I love more than a cold draft beer, but I’m also a Blue Moon lover. So I was prepared to settle for a bottle last night. Well, they were out of Blue Moon… but my planning skills came into effect because I

I don’t really know how to put where I’m at into words, but I’m going to try. I’m in this painful fog, a place where I don’t know who I am, where it feels like I’m watching someone else inside of me scream and cry. And I mean that literally. I’m not crying. I’m not screaming. It’s like the part of me that would is trapped behind my skeleton and I’m just watching them struggle. This is the space where my old coping skills start calling to me. The ones that used to quiet everyt

You want to know what brought me back into myself today? A poem. A beautifully accurate poem.

There are days where I feel like I’m here, but also… not. Like I’m moving through my life from a few feet above my own head, watching myself do things without feeling connected to any of it. It’s a strange kind of distance. Empty in a way I can’t quite describe. These are the moments where memory doesn’t feel like something I own. Everything I did hours or days ago slips away like someone else lived it. Not everything slips away but I know so much is missing. Like looking at

There are days when the only thing I feel is this quiet panic that maybe nothing in me is ever going to change. That maybe this is all my life ever becomes, me trying to convince myself I’m a decent human being, trying to gather enough evidence to believe I’m not a lost cause. I hate how dramatic that sounds, but it still feels true in my body. Because what if I never get better? What if I never feel a pull toward anything? What if I always want more but never move? There’s t

I’m back in the cycle where I’m struggling to sleep, and without medication I can’t fall asleep at all. If I take a Klonopin, I’ll sleep for about an hour before waking up drenched in sweat. And I mean drenched to the point that I have to change my clothes and my bedding. It’s miserable. Last night I ended up taking another Klonopin when I woke up, and thankfully that helped me fall back asleep and stay asleep. But even with a “full” night of sleep, I’m still exhausted. My wh

I’m kind of in a depressive slump today. When my brain gets like this, it convinces me I have nothing good to offer the world. I know it’s just my brain being a giant asshole, and I’ll probably feel better in the morning… at least I hope so. As far as my grief goes, I’m trying my best to be grateful for what was and what still is, instead of getting caught up in what could have been or what I wish could’ve been. It’s hard. This is one of those times where the shame around how

I’ve been in my head about the termination I went through this year (the one that happened by email), and every time I try to write about it, I end up drowning in shame and deleting everything. Not just shame, honestly. It’s also this feeling that my thoughts start spilling out in ways that feel unaligned with who I am. Even when everything I type is true, it feels mean, and it feels like I’m shit-talking, and that’s just not something I like to do. I keep telling myself I’ll

I sometimes feel like different people feeling different grief. Idk how to explain it. Like one second I’m saying “my feelings move” and the next I’m drowning in grief again. Sometimes it’s so painful I really can’t take a breath in. When termination first happened, I blocked the practice on Instagram because I knew seeing her would be too difficult. But about five months ago I unblocked them and thought I would probably be okay, and I guess I’m not as okay as I thought I cou

When my grief for L hits, it’s always different. Sometimes it’s fleeting. Sometimes it’s this softness that feels like a pause in my day… a moment where I can acknowledge how much she means to me and still keep moving. And then there are days like today, when I wake up crying for hours because the part of me that misses her is just more active. It hurts, but it’s not the kind of pain that makes me want to hide. It’s the kind of pain that reminds me how much she matters to me.

I wish we could be a part of each other’s lives. Missing you is painful. Wanting to be able to talk to you is painful. Grieving your absence is painful. I wish we had met under different circumstances. I don’t regret you being my therapist, because you having that role in my life changed me in so many ways. But I wish it didn’t have to mean that talking was impossible. That having a friendship was impossible. That the connection had to stay locked inside the boundaries that k