I have this ache in the pit of my stomach. Not my heart—my stomach—because maybe that’s where my heart lives now. Or maybe it’s on my sleeve. My emotions feel bare, exposed, scraped raw by every silence. I wince when even a light breeze brushes against them. Can they read my face? Can they read my mind? Can they tell I have no idea what’s going on?

Three days. Three days clean. And I feel like a little kid who can’t even articulate what the actual fuck I’m feeling—or what’s going on in my own head. Over the last three days, I’ve looked in the mirror and… I don’t see a reflection. I can’t see one, because I don’t know who I am. I don’t know what I want. Lol, no sir. I just chuckled to myself—because maybe I don’t want to see my reflection. I wouldn’t be proud of who’s looking back at me.

I’m my worst own nightmare. I’m my own worst enemy. Isn’t that a song? Well, what do you know, it sure is.

I’m my own worst nightmare. My own worst enemy. Isn’t that a song? Yup—My Own Worst Enemy by Lit (explicit version, obviously).

I’m not sure what that song has to do with this post. Lol. Maybe it’ll come to me later. All I know is I’ve wanted to live a double life like I’m Hannah Montana. Secret online confessionalist, with the audacity to act like I don’t give a single fuck. But truthfully? I give all the fucks. I’m not mysterious—I’m just shy and antisocial in a way I fear comes across like I think I’m better than everyone. But really, I’m just trying to survive my own thoughts long enough to say something that makes sense.

“Who cares if it makes sense?” “Who cares what people think?” “How do you know if you never try?” “Make the mistake so you can get corrected!” This chorus of flippant, exasperated questions—coming from people who sound like winners. Or worse… people I sometimes wish I was.

But I’m the one who isn’t scared to make the same mistake twice—or three times—but is scared to face the consequences. A coward, if you must. That’s me. So yeah, I do care what people think. I care what they think of me. I’ve curated this tight little bubble that says, “I don’t look like what you think I’ve been through. I know who I am.”

But deep down? I’m just a cowardly little kid who doesn’t know how to grow up.

TL;DR: I’m three days clean and trying to hold it together. I say I don’t care, but I care so much it hurts. I’m not mysterious—I’m just shy, scared, and kind of a coward when it comes to facing myself. This is me, trying to make sense of the mess.