One word, one question, one thousand meanings.

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Why?

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Diary Entry (Warning- SA)

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June 26th, 2025 It’s been almost six years, and I still can’t breathe when I smell those Black Ice air fresheners. They’re everywhere — gas stations, the thought of them, sometimes even someone’s rearview mirror — and every time, it hits me like a sucker punch. August 2019. The bed of a 2019 Ram. The ridges digging into my back like teeth. I was 20 years old, wearing that orange Florida t-shirt — the one I never wore again. I remember the heat first. The sweat, thick and constant, sticking fabric to my skin. His grunts felt louder than anything, like they echoed inside my skull. My panic didn’t look like screaming or fighting — it looked like freezing. Going still. Going somewhere else. I had suggested it, I think. Losing my virginity, I mean. I was young, naive, and thought I should want it. I thought it would be some kind of step I had to take. So, when I first mentioned it, it was my voice, my words, my idea. But as soon as it started happening, I changed my mind. I said no. I wa...
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For the ones untouched

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 Sometimes I watch them—my baby nephew, my little sister—and I think, God, how beautiful it is to be so new to the world. Their laughter comes so easily. Their shoulders don’t know how to tense yet. Their eyes don’t scan for danger in every room. They don’t carry the heaviness I do, and I pray—honestly, I pray every day—that they never have to. It’s a strange kind of ache, loving someone that soft when you’ve lived through things that hard. Sometimes I catch myself just staring at them, memorizing how light they still are. How their smiles reach all the way to their eyes. How they can fall asleep without worrying if the door is locked or if someone will raise their voice tomorrow. How they are still untouched. They may still be tiny, but I still worry. And I think about myself at that age. I wonder when exactly it changed for me—when the air got heavier, when safety became a thing I had to chase instead of just feel. There’s grief in that. But there’s also this overwhelming, te...
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Who Doesn't?

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I have trauma.  Who doesn't?  I have trauma from physical abuse when I was 17 years old.  I have trauma from sexual assault when I was 20 years old. I mentioned before that this 'blog' is like an open diary for me. Why don't I treat it like one and spill out my trauma?  I'm not shy in speaking of it. Nobody should be.  So why shouldn't I share it with the, maybe, one or two people who may ever come across this?  And if it reaches more one day, I hold hope that it resonates with people and they know not to shy away from their trauma and that it encourages them to speak freely. Here is to my next entry, in diary form. ❤
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