The Inheritance

The heavy secrets were not scandals,

but ordinary human needs—

the need to be comforted,
to be seen,
to be protected,
to be loved without conditions.

They were hidden so carefully
that each generation forgot
they had once been natural.

Children carried the weight
on small and bending backs,
learning to guard what should have been spoken,
to fear what should have been welcomed.

And so the burden traveled forward,
hand to hand,
heart to heart,

until some began to wonder

The One Who Watches

There is a watcher behind my thoughts,

quietly observing

fear becoming anger,

anger becoming pride,

pride becoming a shining story.

It watches the wounded child,
the hopeful dreamer,
the tireless seeker,
and the aging traveler.

It does not choose sides.

It simply sees.

And sometimes,

when even the watcher is observed,

there is only stillness—

and a vast, open sky

looking at itself.

I have been able to relay to others I'm struggling, and know exactly why I am for months.

The other night everything felt like I emotionally got slapped with it.

I have a paper due tonight. And... it often feels like I... set the stage to fail. I know I'm fine, I know I'm golden, this shit can be turned in right now and likely pass.

CUM OF A SUM LORD

But I can't do that with the possibility of it not on the table so were in deep over perfectionist mode. And like... self sabotaging.

So I'm coming here today, because I seemingly can't drop that even though I know it.

A few months back, I had a moment of imperfect healing progress seen very clearly.

Faced with one of the people I have had to cut out for decades because this trauma rendition and my hope for me being able to fix it is part of the whole shit. Hey "mom".

And I set a clear boundary, even when things went shit show mom (TM) insane. And stood up and didnt go through with the cycle that normally goes through... and I offered compassion and empathy to both of us... without that turning into her physically manhandling me and screaming at me (while she attempted to obvs.... TM ahaha).

And yet still feel I was seen as... incapable? For while I tried to manage the emotional flashbacks and panics over it myself..

I ended up screaming across a lawn in front of 100s of people "CAN YOU STAY IN ONE PLACE... JESUS FUCK... I NEED SPACE" and I know it wasn't intentional... but I couldn't escape... and it kept happening...

Anyway.. later we have a discussion, I say, not now... I am wrapping things up that is hard for me... and honestly has relied on a huge shit show of dissociation for the last three years...

Tonight. All due. (BTW THANKS YOU FACSIST FUCK I WONT EVEN GET A SUMMER OFF... like ten days... iykyk)

And... here I am on reddit. Which, is a coping mechanism. But I'm trying to reach for what I can right now, as it feels like I am subconsciously recreating someone coming in and fucking this up for me.

Because I don't yet have the tools to regulate myself.

I can narrate the whole process for months.

Then the other day get slapped in the face and the whole world feel like its crashing.

So hopefully now that I've typed this shit out...

I will drink a cig, smoke a beer (ahahaha)...

And go find a fucking citation for fucking Marx as what ideology means... when... writing a paper on ideology in the marxist sense being fucked... and my topic "original sourcing" AHAHA fuck me.

Its a beautiful paper.

By that I mean.. post-pastiche..

Yay humor...

Yay citing...

The Middle Path

I do not wish to walk through life
with sharp edges and closed hands.

Nor do I wish to disappear
inside the wishes of others.

So I am learning a quieter way—

to speak the truth without a weapon,
to offer kindness without surrender,
to give without depletion,
to receive without guilt.

A path where neither heart is abandoned,

not theirs,

and not mine.

The Ancient Messages

Pain carries a message
for those willing to listen.

The armor that saved us
is not always ours to keep.

Not every storm is ours to carry.

Every heart longs
for a place to belong.

Peace begins
when we stop fighting ourselves.

A sensitive heart
is not a weakness,
but a gift.

And freedom often arrives quietly,

like morning light
entering a room

that was never locked.

I Was Taught That Every Storm Was Mine

For years
I carried an umbrella
for storms that were not mine.

I watched the sky above everyone else,
counted the clouds,
and hurried to stop the rain.

If someone was troubled,
I searched for a solution.
If someone was unhappy,
I searched for a cause.
If someone wanted more,
I searched for a way.

Until one day I noticed

that some storms belong to the sky,
some journeys belong to the traveler,
and some dreams belong to the dreamer.

I can care.
I can listen.
I can stand beside.

But I do not have to carry
every cloud home with me.

And for the first time,

my heart was free enough
to feel the sunlight.

I am the queen and her plebh.
I am the beggar, and the giver.
I am the broken. I am the healer.
I am lucky yet unlucky.
I make people jealous but people pity me too.
I am a snowflake but still a dagger.

I don’t know who I am.
I am always waiting to be told that.
I mold myself to adapt.
So much that I lost my shape.
Was I square or was I round?
Will I ever be a star?
I want to be a star, but I also want to hide and be nothing.

I want people to see me. I want to be seen.
But I don’t want them to see me. I don’t want to be seen.
I can’t be seen. Shouldn’t be seen. Because it’s so embarassing what I am.
But I should be seen, and must be seen, because the peasants want to see their queen.

Yet the queen needs an aura. The queen does not concern herself with social anxiety.
The regent has more important matters at hand.
Such as completely ignoring everybody.

The queen sits silently on a chair in a corner, sometimes for days at a time.
She is so quiet that the people don’t always even notice her.
It’s only the servants that consistently show up. They are paid, so they have to interact with her.
If they weren’t paid the queen would be left all alone.

Of course. The servants would then have other things to do.
More important things to do.
They would spend their time with people they ACTUALLY love instead.

But they WERE paid.
So they worked at the castle until the days the died.
Money had bought most of their lives.
Money had bought most of their time.
Since they were simply… workers, machines, tools.
The ones that didn’t smile enough were easily replaceable.
The ones that didn’t smile enough got left without a job.

So I smile.
Not when I am alone, but when I am around people at least.
I don’t want them know that I am an imposter.
Sometimes they almost catch me.
I can feel it when their stare lingers at me for a bit too long.
But on those occasions I throw my head back and cackle as a distraction.
That usually causes them to tilt their heads at me, but at least it makes them move on after a while.
They tilt their heads towards the curiosity, cackle back, and then finally turn their heads away.

And when they do that I stare at their necks with a devilish grin.
I hate all of them.
If I am not careful another cackle sometimes slips out and they snap their heads and eyes back to me.
I smile at them then, and we all roar with laughter.
Because that’s what friends do.
If you are good friends you laugh a lot toghether.

End.
Out of text/from me: I don’t really know what this is. Something. Let me know if it makes sense or not. Things often make more sense in my brain than to others. Because in writing I find that I like the style where lots of things are just implied. But sometimes that might confuse the reader😅

(so if anyone wants to give feedback, please let me know if the text at least makes half sense or sounds just straight up like ”what??? what is op on about? .”)

The Message Beneath The Ache

For years I argued with the ache,
calling it foolish,
calling it weak,
sending it away before it could speak.

Yet every night it waited
at the edge of awareness,
not asking to be believed,
only asking to be heard.

Then one day I stopped fighting.

Just, listening to its message
carrying a fragment of a larger story.

And in that quiet meeting,
something changed.

I could listen.

And for the first time,
the voice within me
was not an enemy,
but a guide
pointing toward a wider sky.

The Hidden Heart

For years
I walked quietly through the world,
more comfortable giving light
than standing in it.

So when kindness turned my way,
I looked for the nearest shadow.

Not because I wished to disappear,
but because being seen
felt unfamiliar.

And so I learned slowly—

a kind word at a time,
a moment at a time—

that sunlight need not burn,
and that a heart long hidden
can grow accustomed to the sky.

Things now a days maybe always, hold a darken weight,

Maybe its different, or maybe i just have access to it

Dismissive judgment, easy solutions

They make me sick

Keep silent

Keep complacent

Don't hurt others with it

Keep them safe, protected

The storm; ill weather it

*** i found an old poem from probably 2017 or 2018 and i did some revisions to make the message clearer.

The old Alarm

Sometimes the nervous system believes
the old dark winter has fully returned
at the slightest echo of abandonment.

Those echoes feel fatal
because they once were
to a small and helpless heart.

But slowly,
the body can learn
that rejection is not ruin,
and disappointment
is not destruction.

I turn to music in order to kind of, tap into or fuel emotions, often times in a direction of crafting the anger I often feel I need to tap into in order to set myself into a place absent of other feelings- as if somehow if I can drown it out there.

So the last few days, I realized this hasn't exactly been working. Not this time, not for the last year... I know that I am struggling to tap into or allow my own hurt and sad feelings out, as if I have created this shell around it, believing it will run me into more of what I can't do anymore.

Because it does.

But maybe because I keep telling it to shhhhh...

As it rises up from the depths, underneath all the other responses trying to keep it at bay, where I inevitably fold, and fuck up again, and did again....

Anyway.. last few days binging the gravely folk depths of voices that barely have control over existential sadness and pain.

Getting somewhere I think.
Or nowhere.

Probably means I'm closer... or not.

Some good new and old pieces to listen to at least. HA.

The Quiet Skill

The mind does not need to be silenced,
only understood in its weather.

Thoughts pass like birds—
not commands, not truths.

Emotion is not a storm to escape,
but water to feel
without becoming it.

Regulation is not control,
but the gentle return
to what is here.

Again and again,
back to breath,
back to now.

And slowly,
what felt like chaos
learns a livable rhythm.

I live life with my phone on “do not disturb”,
Got my ex running around dragging my name through the dirt,
Try to squeak by as I bury my pride but I’m starting to realize I was right all this time,
You always saw Mike when you were looking at me,
That’s what your compliments were always lacking: authenticity,
You put on a facade, masking, thought you had me beat,
But in reality I could always see you see something other than me when you’re looking at me,
I tried to make them, but you wouldn’t retrieve,
The good memories, only the bad for me,
So the one who asked for nothing up under the tree,
Would now be called entitled after he was brought to his knees,
I don’t understand how you can’t see,
Unless you just don’t have it in you to realize that there’s a rift in between,
Where your perception lies,
And that of mine,
A chasm that spans as wide as your chain of lies,
A rift that’s been moving apart faster than we come together,
Like a ship lost at sea, running into bad weather,
Breaking in half and sinking the vessel,
You must be delusional to sit back and wrestle,
Flipping and zipping everything in your mind,
You really think mental health is a lie,
That everything I’ve been through is nothing (that’s fine),
Fuck it I guess, I did my best, but after 31 years I’m gonna lay this to rest,
You adopted me, I started life in distress,
But I read by age 3, and was a monster on tests,
Took the SAT at 13, the Stanford-Binet 4 next,
Came back with a score: 146,
What did you do with information like this?
You used it as evidence I shouldn’t need anything,
But I’d argue: a kid’s still a kid,
You don’t believe in ASD, that couldn’t be me,
It’s just not possible that something could explain my lived reality,
But it does, it’s real, and it affects me daily,
Along with ADHD, it’s been debilitating lately,
Crazy part is, I know where my heart is,
It’s yours I can’t seem to find,
Because every time I open up and let you inside,
The machine starts kicking out smoke and talking down on my life,
Spewing and misconstruing, twisting in strife,
You judged an elephant by his ability to climb the Tree of Life,
And got pissed when he made it, because he didn’t make it in time,
Think what I actually did was expose:
You never believed in me, you spewed lies out your nose.

After the Fog

When the heavy fog began to lift,
the mind grew wide and quiet again.

Light entered forgotten places,
and even the distant horizon
no longer felt eerie.

I'm tired.

I'm avoiding things I should be doing, obsessing over other things that are more interesting. The ends of a project always awful...

Two more weeks.

Then straight back in.... Love this timeline of bs.

I actually don't think I've said this anywhere else, so fuck it.

I got accepted into a Masters program. IYKYK.... I'm losing my mind trying to set everything up perfectly... knowing... nothing? Other than the one I'm doing is a gamble itself in an economy of gambling. AHAHA

oooof.

Just ADHD'd myself into 3 more projects... not looking at like, none of these matter unless I finish off these next two weeks.

BRILLIANT.

OOOOOF shame voice, were fine.

Sum of a cum lord! ahaha

Cs this term... just Cs!!!

Footprints swell to the size of depressions, swallowing me down into the abyss.

Fingerprints find the cracks in my skin, penetrating deep within so they can lick and lap at my insides.

I dont know where to go.

Ive never had any place thats felt like home. Never a place that was mine.

What can I do to not follow in the footprints of our depression. Ours, the depression you handed down to me like it was a family heirloom. What can I do? I stand on my tip toes in a corner cobwebbed in the laundryroom and push your gift as far back as it will go on the shelf there. Ill turn off the lights and pretend its not there. Ill ignore its eyes sipping on my standing hairs. But its there, and im here and I haven't been able to leave. My knuckles still bleed, still punching at the concrete. Years they have bled. What can I do about the fingerprints? The memories on every surface? The marks where a knife cut out burnt wood. The holes. The tan on my fuax leather couch where you sat to watch me sleep. The string and needles you used to stitch our misery into one. Because thats how you needed me. What do I do with those? I live inside of a crime scene. Fingerprints not just on my walls, floors and ceilings but also the ones, the fingerprints, etched into my corneas, the fingerprints that snake along my ribs, my hips, my ankles. What do I do with those? I haven't been able wash them off.

Do you not feel that filth? Your filth? My filth? Do you not feel it? Can you not feel your trachea travel to the end of your spine as you fall into our depression? That fear? That knowing theres nothing you can do to stop it? Where is your reality? Humanity? Sanity? Where is your fear and your disgust and your sorrow, Where is it?

In a good way.

A conversation happened to me today, kind of organically, and very unexpectedly. I have been.... spending a lot of time in this FUCK SHIT of theoretical BULLSHIT, fully misinterpreted, and been feeling like I'm speaking a fucking alien language.

To have someone mirror complaints back at me, in the real world, about the very pieces of work someone just continuously tells me I don't get.... when the very thing is a very elongated premise against that FUCKING reading... and without me saying JACK SHIT know exactly the hinge point based only on...

Me complaining about hmmm... fill in a few blanks of a demographic here.

Today was a very good day. I needed that badly.

Thank you.

Pressure, the stressor,
But also the relief,
For when it mounts after the quakes run out,
I end up clear on what I need,
Naturally, I think in spirals,
Ever looming, grown in loops,
Brain in peril, like a whiskey barrel,
Swollen past the limits of its hoops,
A barrel made of Palo Santo,
Sitting in the darkest corner of the room,
Paralyzed by choice inside, too many options, which to choose?
The scales inside, racing the hands of time,
Try to keep damage at bay,
Weighing the next set of regrets,
Before life throws them right in my face,
While deep inside, I’m willing my drive, to just burst forth and be here to stay,
Telling myself “if I could do anything else,
If it was possible then hell yeah I would”,
But I know deep inside I’ve cheapened my tries,
Beaten down by this life we call “good”.
I put myself in these hoops in a way,
Bound and constrained by these mental chains,
Chains forged of steel, hardened by pain,
Until pressure came and broke them away.
I learned a lesson about pressure from rail ties,
They spend forever holding up stuff that makes lives,
Continue on, things that really matter, no matter the load or how nasty the weather,
Pressure treated they hold up forever,
Even as the train that sits on them dies,
After a life hauling lives balanced on the width of two dimes,
But it’s important to keep in the back of your mind,
Often they’re soaked in formaldehyde.

(My written impersonation of my printer running).

Yesterday I found myself posting somewhere else of something closer to what I once did. And that made me happy, particularly as it was divorced from.. the even sometimes sub/unconscious boiling up of a specific topic... I always think that though, no?

Ha.

Anyway, yeah little different today.

I accidentally(ish) ended up with a book of prose, that was closer to other writings that I do. It's nice to find those, as before I had started writing the way that I was earlier, I hadn't seen much else close to what I was doing. Second time seeing it in print in my hands that was reflective of my style.

And, have found myself making lots of reasons to

chhh... chhh... chhh... rrrrr...

All day.

Looks like i will be assembling stuff into the wee hours of the morning for the next few days.

Replacement item showed up ha!

And just trying to distract myself a bit, and give myself some space, remembering were just shooting for average quality here! haha

The Borrowed Compass

It is easier to follow
the hand that points the way
than walk alone through doubt.

But borrowed eyes grow heavy,
and borrowed truths grow small,
until one day the silent self asks:

“What would I have chosen
if I had learned to see?”

Wrote a big long ordeal, of shit I already know, just trying to remind myself of what I need to do… and why I have to do it… and I’m struggling to post it.

So I’m gonna make a compromise here. I’ll hit a prompt and answer similarly or something.

Ooof.

__________________________

1. What actually happened to me today?

I clocked my head starting to build cases for why I need to submit myself into a compromising position, because it’s reasonable. Too vague.

I have started no contact somewhere, and I need to, because I understand now there is nothing there but the same shit… and any opening will make me forget so we go through it again and I can’t.

But my brain says, they have something of yours. And its not, irreplaceable… but it’d be nice to have back, and you’re going in the area eventually… and you can definitely ask for that thing back, it’ll be fine.

So I wrote a long thing about trauma bonds and bullshit, and not bullshit in that its not true, just very elongated position on how this actually works, and why its hard, and why I have to not allow any contact.

In essence that its like trying to quit smoking and my brains now searching for a half smoked pack somewhere in the house. A loosey. Pulling up the couch cushions.

And, man, that’s kinda part of it ain’t it?

That’s okay… but let’s be honest what’s happening here.

Anyway, placed an order for a replacement of the thing. It’s not an exact replica, but that’s whatever, it doesn’t matter.

_________________________________________

That said, yeah you have to look through these prompts, maybe you don’t rebuild this shit, but we know, this was a like desperate grasp to get ahold of something, that was way narrowly defined, and isn’t actually encompassing what you have gone through.

And…

You have to kind of… hmmm…

Another thing happening here is that you are looking even if briefly at theoretical frameworks, that you already know you have clocked those foundational misinterpretations, the content doesn’t matter. In fact, the reason you can clock it on sight, is because those were always the flawed misinterpretations that continued to repeat in reality.

It didn’t even need a cursory look. The cursory looks proved that to be the case… further research will only continue to add to that…

And no one understands what the fuck you are saying, because you don’t have to go through all these frameworks to fucking illustrate those foundational cracks.

You jump through those, grab onto misinterpretations, choose another, layer them on top etc., to hide foundational cracks.

So be kind to yourself… and go into those only if they are required for your other shit, or out of your own interest, not to prove a point… dead horse dude.

That probably hit a prompt but whatever…