It’s not his fault I chose him. My trauma chose him without my knowing it was my trauma choosing him.

It’s not his fault he chose me. He chose my trauma without his knowing it was my trauma he was choosing.

The hardest thing is this: My stories are me saying I want to live, to heal, to survive. My voice is me in the world saying I want to stay, to learn, to earn my keep. Speaking and writing are my way of saying I’m here, of understanding the world and my place in it, of advocating and growing and empathizing. For my voice, my words, even my pleas to be a burden, something to silence or escape … what do I make of that? How do I process it? My self is at stake. My frozen self wants to run but can’t move a muscle.

You’re on a swing. When you go forward, you’re in the future. When you go back, you’re in the past. You don’t even register the present as you breeze by it.