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.

Am I rotting? Am I rotting from the inside out? I’m not rotting. The part of me that loved you — it is coming undone.

I pray to sleep every night / And hope to God you hear me, / Wrapped in rosary, / Drenched in kisses from / Everyone except you.

That’s all I have. That’s all I have of the incident — or the incidents — I don’t even have that clarity. I just see the color red.

Why is it so hard? / It’s been seconds, minutes, days, weeks, months, years. / I messed up, I admit it. / I can’t fix it, I know.

This isn't your fault. It's not your fault. I don't want you to feel like you helped sign me up for that class and facilitated, in some way, me meeting him. I'm sorry I never told you that he was hurting me right in front of you.

So here’s a short version: Toxic Christianity. I’ve lived it, I’ve worked in it, and I’m recovering from it. I’m sorry if you’ve ever experienced it and it’s turned you away.

I deserve love, I deserve to be happy. Can I let the same person who broke me, love me? I don't know.

How can I hate you this much? It doesn’t make any sense. How can I possibly hate you as you are now? Aren’t you normal? Aren’t I the one in the wrong?

I'm afraid to die alone. / You know? like to be a found dead body forgot somewhere.

Being pregnant felt more like being perpetually ill. It felt like a sickness; it was not enjoyable at all and I was miserable the whole time.

There's no way out, it's swallowing me whole / The dark abyss that’s become my heart and soul / Enveloped by neglect and unquenched desire / I may never know the joy that lights a heart on fire

My story of anxiety and depression is a slow one and not very interesting. But, hopefully, one day, I will be able to breathe. Fingers crossed.