Chapter Text
fair warning this chapter is pretty much just the ao3 equivalent of a five-paragraph essay and life story before a recipe on how to make grilled cheese so uhh skip this chapter if you don't want to see that.
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I started writing poetry around september of 2024 to cope with my increasingly worsening PTSD symptoms of the dissociative kind, the reality of my fuckass ex's, the worst cattfishing/situationship experience known to mankind, gender dysphoria, and pining over who I, at the time, thought was love of my life (he was not, how the FUCK did i miss all those red flags?)(at least it made some good poetry though) it was a rough time. i had genuinely forgotten how to cry and was so burnt out that i was slowly fading away. And worst of all? I thought that being with anyone, whether or not i actually had feelings for them would fix all of my problems. it was rough. so i turned to literature, a common respite of mine; inspired by my new interest in the lyricism of people such as pete wentz, i began creating instead of just consuming. despite this, because of all my shame and self-hatred, i rarely showed it to anyone outside of my web-based safe spaces; staying as anonymous as possible out of fear of rejection. it was so much worse in person; in person you could see their facial expressions and disinterest. Online if they didn't like it they just wouldn't respond or comment. i felt protected. until i realized that in my caution, i had made my poetry invisible. What was the point in creating if it was just in a vacuum echoing back to me? I started showing it to friends with mixed reactions. many asked if i was okay. i didn't have the guts to tell them that i wasn't. at that point i began to lose the plot. was it art or a cry for help? was it good or just concerning? was its only appeal shock factor?
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When i started dating the man i had convinced myself was my soulmate the tone of my poems definitely became more hopeful, sappier; the works. i couldn't contain my excitement. i wanted a white picket fence, a dog, and some kids. but as my feelings began to fade and my future crumbled away in my all too willing hands, i wrote less. he had become the only person i would allow to view my poems. so they became meaningless again. The breakup was rough; both parties had just been in and out of mental care facilities and i felt ignored and unconnected. i needed to get out. go back to the honeymoon phase with someone new to keep the high going. so we went "on break" and i got back with my ex who had been chasing after me for years after he broke up with me and immediately regretted it. men are stupid. i had played both of them and faced the consequences by losing both of them plus the friends who sided with them in the breakup over the course of three weeks. they both weren't good partners but i still deserved everything that came of it. i willingly destroyed years long friendships for a good fuck. after all that's all i thought i was good for, right? i wanted to be discarded and forgotten about. left behind. a shameless slut.
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I went back to the mental hospital. realized not everything is just about who's willing to kiss you. and best of all, i started writing again.
and now we're here.
enjoy :)