To the boy who made me feel lesser and unimportant. To the boy I thought I loved, who I thought loved me.

It’s been almost two years since then and that relationship still plagues my mind.

The guilt is what I now have to work through, accepting it for what it was, telling myself my mother would be by my side.

I’m a teen going through some tough shit in my head. I recently just figured out that I have OCD.

I carry a suitcase of doubt, and I wonder if I could maybe lose it along the way to my destination. I feel genuinely terrified to become what I need.

He wasn’t doing anything wrong or hurtful.

Grieving takes time, and for everyone that is different. I think that the one thing that helps the past recover is time.

We’re all trying to feel our bodies; what it means, to feel, to be alive in this organism that provides such rich lives.

Even my best friend at the restaurant didn't respond well when I told him. He didn't respond poorly, he kind of just didn't respond at all.

Do you know what you are? There is a difference between asking "who" and "what" you are, I think. Saying "who" instead of "what" already gives you a platform.

I know now that I’m a strong person. I know now that the weakness I had in that relationship does not define me or my femininity. But he still lingers. And I’m afraid he always will.

I hope that at some point I'm able to be as optimistic as I once had been about life, but until then — here's to hoping, wishing, and praying that this slow recovery stays on the right track.

I never fought back, never stopped him, never cried or spoke up. So how could this be anyone’s fault but mine?

On the announcement of our engagement, after five years of no contact she messaged me: “I wouldn’t have reacted like that if I knew you’d get married.”

It’s difficult when everyone pities you, yet you’re at the strongest you’ve ever been. It’s also difficult when he can do whatever he wants, but when you find the love of your life, he tries to derail it.

It’s 9:18pm on a Thursday night. This week flew right by me. My thumb hovers over my older sister’s phone number, but I don’t press it to call her. I think to myself, This is it. This is the feeling that’s making me sick.

The relief I felt after the mutual split has now worn off, and I find myself in a daydream, remembering the beginning, experiencing a same-sex relationship for the first time with someone who did truly love me at one point, and I her.

The first time I went to therapy was shortly after my parents had divorced. I had just graduated from high school the previous summer and I was nineteen – struggling to find where I fit in this world. 

Go dancing, have a few drinks, hook up with a stranger - you just need a change! Yes. This will fix me. I’ll keep telling myself that.

This time feels different than the first time we broke up. The first time I was completely liberated; it was difficult to adjust, but still very freeing.

There are only two of us, my mom and I. She's retired right now, and I have become the one who is responsible for this family.

It’s 9 a.m. and…/ We wake up and make breakfast,/ And all is well.

This past September I bought a “Me Too” pin to put on my backpack. It was a way for me to acknowledge the validity of my own experience. It was a courageous statement.

What would they say if they knew? Does she know? Does his wife know what he did?