How I became my own best friend

I don’t know what hurts more,

the life I live now,

or the one I lived before.

Before the age of twelve,

life was perfect in my eyes. 

But perhaps it was only perfect 

because I knew no other skies.

After twelve, 

people looked up to me. 

I was the cool kid, 

or so it seemed. 

While everyone saw someone rising, 

I was drowning underneath.

A constant fear of life, 

a constant threat to peace. 

I wore a brave face every day, 

believing that was what was asked of me.

I didn’t know what right was. 

I didn’t know what wrong could be. 

I felt like a stranger in someone else’s body, 

like I was living a life that didn’t belong to me.

I didn’t understand the world, 

or what it wanted me to be. 

I thought I should enjoy the things 

that filled my heart with fear, 

even when every part of me was begging me to flee.

I woke in terror in the night. 

That was where it all began. 

Yet I kept pushing myself to like it, 

trying to understand 

what I could never understand.

My body carried constant pain, 

but I never let the brave face slip. 

I learned to hide the hurt inside 

and keep the truth behind my lips.

I traveled far, 

I saw new places, 

I learned just what to say. 

I gave them all the pretty stories, 

the parts that felt safe to share. 

I spoke of all the good things, 

the things that floated on the surface, 

while underneath, 

a terrified little girl 

was drowning in silence.

They promised they would keep me safe 

from all the dangers they could see. 

They guarded me from strangers, 

from the world beyond the door, 

but they never saw the danger 

standing right in front of me.

I followed him like a puppy, 

eager for a little love. 

He showed me off as though I mattered, 

as though I was someone worth being proud of.

And I believed that I was special. 

For once, 

I thought I had a place. 

I never knew how love could feel so close 

and still leave fear in its place.

In a house that lived in chaos, 

attention was a rare thing to receive. 

Unless I had done something wrong, 

there was little reason to notice me.

So I learned to chase affection. 

I learned to take what I could get. 

I learned to hold on to the moments 

that I wish I could forget.

And as the years went by, 

the weight grew far too much to bear. 

I kept it buried deep inside me, 

pretending it was never there.

Until the silence started breaking. 

Until the truth could not stay small. 

Until everything I’d held inside 

came rushing down the walls.

I finally spoke. 

I finally told. 

I finally let the truth unfold. 

And in the telling, 

everything changed, 

the life I knew, 

the people I thought loved me, 

the world I thought I knew by name.

Everything came tumbling down, 

and nothing felt the same. 

But somewhere in the wreckage, 

my body began to learn that it could do more than fight or flee, 

that it could feel without needing to run, 

that perhaps the world was not all danger, 

and I was not forever undone.

I live with severe C-PTSD, 

with memories that still leave their mark. 

I carry pieces of a childhood 

that taught me how to live in the dark.

And one by one, 

my siblings turned away. 

All but one fell silent, 

leaving words they would not say.

I felt alone in ways 

I never knew a person could. 

I lost the people I had counted on, 

the ones I thought would understand, 

the ones I thought would stand beside me 

when I finally took a stand.

So I learned to sit with my own thoughts. 

I learned to hear my own voice. 

I learned that even when the world falls silent, 

I still have a choice.

I learned to hold myself together 

when there was no one else to call. 

I learned to be the one who caught me when I felt I might fall.

And somewhere along the way, 

through all the hurt and all the strife, 

I became the person I had needed for so much of my life.

I became my own best friend.

Not because I never needed anyone, 

not because the loneliness was kind, 

but because when everyone else walked away, 

I was still there, 

trying to put the pieces of myself together, 

one day at a time.

And still, I wonder…

What is worse? 

The life I live now,

or the life I lived before?

The girl who knew no difference, 

or the girl who knows too much?

The years I spent in silence, 

or the years spent learning how to speak?

I don’t know which hurts more. 

Perhaps I never will.

But I know the girl 

I was deserved to be protected. 

She deserved to feel safe. 

She deserved a childhood that did not leave her afraid.

And even if the world failed her, 

even if the people she loved could not see, 

she was never to blame for what was done to her.

She was just a girl trying to find her place, 

trying to understand the world, 

trying to make it through each day.

And now, 

after everything,

T 

She is still here.

Still learning. 

Still growing. 

Still finding her way.

And for the first time, 

perhaps the story isn't only about what happened to her.

Perhaps it is also about who she gets to become.