Writing My Ruin

A collection of quiet confessions and dark curiosities. Soft, feral, and a little haunted. Written by a nerdy, queer, BDSM-loving sex worker who turns ache into something else.

[voxflux]

Autopsy of the Soul...

When the world gets too loud, I build someone new.

A name first — something strong enough to hold the pieces of me that are falling apart.

Then scars. Then story. Then reason.

I start cutting fragments of myself into archetypes and abilities,

turning pain into power,

and grief into proficiency bonuses.

Every new character is an operation without an audience —

a scalpel made of lore, sutures of spell slots.

Therapy without the chair.

No soft-voiced stranger asking, “And how does that make you feel?”

Because I already know.

I just need somewhere to put it.

The barbarian is my unspent rage —

a walking pressure valve with a greataxe.

She rages so I don’t have to; takes hits I’ve never been allowed to throw back.

The paladin is my desperate need to believe in purpose —

sworn oaths standing in for boundaries I keep letting people cross.

The druid is the caretaker in me,

the healer who gives everything until she fades into the forest.

And the rogue — the rogue is the girl who learned to survive by staying unseen,

who keeps her trust locked behind sleight of hand and cunning action,

who smiles just long enough to make you underestimate her.

Their backstories are my confessions, disguised as fiction.

Their abilities are my coping mechanisms — rewritten, renamed, made noble by dice rolls.

I give them trauma so I can give it meaning.

I let them fall so I can learn how to write survival without bitterness.

I let them love, even when I can’t.

Each one holds a version of me that couldn’t breathe in this world anymore.

I carve them out, rebuild them, set them loose in universes where healing has rules and pain comes with saving throws.

It’s not escapism — it’s surgery.

A kind of soul triage that lets me keep going.

Cut. Stitch. Roll for damage.

It’s a therapy session where the table is the only place I tell the truth.

People think it’s fantasy.

But every time I fill another character sheet, I’m writing an autopsy report.

Another resurrection.

Another chance to build a body I actually want to live in.

And by the end, I’m not healed —

just functional enough to keep playing.

And sometimes, that’s enough.

[voxflux]

"Life Alert": Title Of Your Sex Tape...

One of my favourite things is that this is genuinely our pillow talk.

Curled up together after sex, instead of talking about anything remotely sensible, we end up planning what our sex life looks like at eighty-five.

It's oddly romantic to imagine being eighty-five and still completely feral for each other.

The couple the paramedics see on the dispatch screen and immediately sigh.

"Ah, fuck... it's these two again."

"Place your bets. Fractured pelvis? Dislocated hip? Or did they finally lose a fight with the Kama Sutra?"

Because apparently, after fifty years together, one more orgasm was always worth gambling with the reaper.

The couple our grandchildren absolutely dread introducing to their new girlfriend or boyfriend.

Not because they're worried we'll say something derogatory or wildly out of pocket.

Because the introductions always start the same.

"Oh, hi darl! We've heard so much about you."

"Grab yourself a beer."

"Here's a plate, don't be shy."

Then the colour drains from their face.

They've just recognised us...

...as the award-winning geriatric porn stars from last week's release.

You'll be asking where your Viagra is.

I'll be asking where I left my dentures.

One of us will be reaching for the Life Alert pendant.

The other will be arguing that we've already come this far, so we may as well finish.

It's completely unhinged.

And somehow...

it's one of the most romantic futures I can imagine.

Because I never pictured fifty years with anyone.

Now I picture fifty years of being completely, unapologetically feral for each other.

Still flirting.

Still making each other laugh until we can't breathe.

Still looking at each other like we're each other's favourite bad idea.

I don't just want to grow old with you.

I want us to be living proof that desire doesn't retire—it just gets progressively more dangerous, increasingly ridiculous, and significantly harder on the joints.

[voxflux]

Not Again...

I know you were trying to protect me.

That's the cruel part.

Because I know your "no" came from love.

But my heart didn't hear love.

It heard rejection.

It heard, "Your body isn't something I want right now."

And I know that's not what you meant.

I know.

But trauma doesn't wait for clarification.

It recognises patterns.

It fills in the blanks before logic has a chance.

I've lived this before.

I've had surgery before.

I've watched someone slowly stop wanting me before.

I've watched desire disappear while I was still lying in the same bed, wondering what had changed.

I promised myself I'd never have to survive that feeling again.

And then I reached for the person I love.

The person I've had countless conversations with about feeling sexually wanted.

The person who knows how much rejection hurts.

The person who knows what it feels like to wonder if you're desirable.

I reached for you.

You didn't have to guess.

You didn't have to initiate.

I was vulnerable enough to ask.

And you said no.

I know it was because you were worried about my body.

But all I could think was,

"Not again."

Not this story.

Not this fear.

Not this version of me lying awake wondering whether surgery has made me something to protect instead of something to desire.

The hardest part is that I know my body.

I know its pain.

I know its limits.

I've spent years learning the difference between discomfort and damage.

I wasn't asking you to ignore my recovery.

I was asking because I knew I was ready.

And now I'm left carrying something I desperately didn't want to pick up again.

That fear that maybe my body has become too broken to be wanted.

Too fragile to be touched.

Too risky to be desired.

I hate that my brain went there.

I hate that it happened so quickly.

I hate that the person I want to feel safest being vulnerable with accidentally woke up the one fear I swore I'd never have to carry again.

Because I don't need sex.

I need to know that you still look at me and want me.

That my scars haven't replaced my desirability.

That my recovery hasn't replaced my sexuality.

That when my body heals, you won't have spent so long protecting it that you forget how to reach for it.

I know that's not what you meant.

I know that's not your intention.

But my heart has lived this story before.

And right now it's terrified it's about to watch the ending all over again.

[voxflux]

The Long Way Home...

In a couple of days they'll be home.

I've spent two weeks counting down to that.

Now it's close enough to feel real, and my emotions are all over the place.

I want to run into their arms.

I want to avoid every conversation waiting for us.

I want to kiss them.

I want to heal the hurt fractured in a new relationship.

I want to fall asleep beside them.

I want to know whether we're okay.

My trust feels bruised.

My love doesn't.

That's the contradiction I'm struggling with.

I don't want distance.

I don't want another argument.

I just want the comfort of the person who's also been the source of some of my hurt.

I've never wanted someone home so badly.

I've never been so anxious for them to get here.

I know we'll be okay.

I just don't want to bleed more as the scars heal.

[voxflux]

Aftercare...

I miss the part after the hard conversations and arguments.

The part where words run out

And we hold each other instead.

Turns out video calls are terrible at hugs.

[voxflux]

The Nervous System Tax...

The worst part about intense emotions isn't the emotions.

It's what they do to my body.

I can feel the exact moment the switch flips.

The conversation ends.

The tears stop.

The adrenaline starts wearing off.

And suddenly my body comes to collect.

It's always there.

Standing in the corner, sharpening the knife.

The pain gets louder.

The fatigue hits like a truck.

My joints start screaming.

My head starts pounding.

My body tears itself apart because I had the audacity to feel something.

That's the part people don't understand.

I don't just pay for heartbreak emotionally.

I pay for it physically.

Every argument.

Every grief.

Every panic.

Every betrayal.

My body treats it like an injury.

And sometimes that's what makes me angriest.

Not that something hurt me.

That now I have to hurt twice.

[voxflux]

Opening The Archives...

Booking the relationship therapist felt like a great idea at the time.

Growth.

Healing.

Self-awareness.

Look at me, doing the work.

Now it's the night before and I feel sick.

Not nervous.

Not butterflies.

Properly, physically sick.

The kind of anxiety that sits in your stomach and makes food feel impossible.

The kind that has your heart racing over a threat that doesn't exist yet.

Because I know exactly what I'm walking into.

I've spent years carefully packing things away.

Filing them.

Labelling them.

Stacking them neatly enough that I could keep functioning.

Keep working.

Keep loving people.

Keep surviving.

Tomorrow I have to start opening those boxes.

And I don't think I'm scared of what's inside.

I already know there's grief in there.

I already know there are wounds that never healed properly.

I already know there are memories I've never actually processed, just organised neatly enough that I didn't have to look at them.

What scares me is what happens when I open them.

What happens when I stop holding everything together.

What happens when I start grieving experiences I've spent years surviving.

Because once that starts, it doesn't just affect me.

It spills.

Into conversations.

Into relationships.

Into quiet moments.

Into the people standing closest to me.

I'm terrified of becoming raw.

Of becoming reactive.

Of crying over things that happened ten years ago as if they happened yesterday.

I'm terrified that in trying to heal, I'll accidentally bleed on people who never cut me.

And I'm terrified of what happens when my brain starts digging.

Because I know myself.

I know what happens when old things get disturbed.

I know the nightmares are probably coming.

The flashbacks.

The memories that appear out of nowhere and hit hard enough to steal the air from your lungs.

The dreams that leave you waking up confused, exhausted and feeling like you've already lived through the worst part of your day before you've even gotten out of bed.

I don't think I'm scared of remembering.

I think I'm scared of reliving.

Of spending years putting distance between myself and something painful, only to willingly walk back towards it because that's apparently what healing looks like.

And if I'm really honest, I don't want to do it alone.

I know that's the point.

I know nobody can climb into those boxes and unpack them for me.

But there is something deeply unsettling about knowing you have to willingly walk back into rooms you've spent years trying to leave.

And then there's the thing making me feel the most nauseous.

I've never met this therapist before.

For all I know, they're wonderful.

For all I know, they're exactly who I need.

But what if they're not?

What if I finally work up the courage to start opening boxes I've spent years keeping shut and realise halfway through that I'm sitting in front of the wrong person?

What if I drag all this grief into the light only to discover it isn't safe there?

What if I spend an hour pulling apart things that took years to pack away and leave feeling more exposed than helped?

What if I leave with all the contents of the archives scattered across the floor and have to gather them back up alone?

I know that's part of the process.

I know people try more than one therapist.

I know this isn't life or death.

But my nervous system doesn't seem to know that.

My nervous system is acting like I'm about to walk into a disaster.

Like I'm about to open something that can't be closed again.

Like once those boxes come apart, enough of me is going to spill out that everything crashes.

That my heart rate tanks.

My blood pressure drops.

The lights go out.

Logically, I know that's not what's going to happen.

But anxiety isn't logical.

Anxiety is standing at the edge of a cliff your rational brain knows isn't there.

And the worst part is I don't even feel like I can explain how scared I am.

Because it sounds dramatic.

It sounds silly.

It's therapy.

People do this every day.

People unpack trauma every day.

People find therapists and change therapists and keep going.

Objectively, none of this is a catastrophe.

But try explaining that to the part of me that knows exactly what's sitting in those boxes.

The part of me that already knows which files contain nightmares.

Which shelves hold flashbacks.

Which drawers contain things I've spent years carefully avoiding.

I'm not scared of finding something I don't know about.

I'm scared of finding something I know about all too well.

Tonight it doesn't feel like therapy.

Tonight it feels like standing outside a door with my hand on the handle, knowing that on the other side is every version of myself I've spent years trying not to become again.

I know I'll go.

I know it's time.

I know those boxes aren't going to stay closed forever.

But tonight I don't feel brave.

I feel afraid in a way that's difficult to explain to anyone who hasn't spent years building a life around not looking too closely at what's buried underneath it.

[voxflux]

Maybe Grief Recognises Grief...

One of the things nobody tells you about sex work is how often you're hired to be a therapist.

Not a fake therapist.

Not a roleplay therapist.

Just a person sitting across from another human being while they try to put themselves back together.

Tonight a young psychologist booked me.

Works on a crisis line.

Spends his days talking people through the worst moments of their lives.

And he sat there crying over a call from a teenager that ended abruptly.

No outcome.

No closure.

No way of knowing whether she got help.

Whether she hung up.

Whether she survived.

Or whether he was one of the last voices she ever heard.

So we sat there.

And we talked.

About that call.

About the others.

About the people who stay with him long after his shift ends.

About the scars nobody sees because they're hidden beneath professionalism, training, and duty of care.

And somewhere in that time, the weight shifted.

He laughed.

He relaxed.

He looked lighter.

He left carrying less than he arrived with.

And I was genuinely glad.

I still am.

But if I'm being honest, there's a part of me that thinks it's kind of fucking unfair.

Not him.

The situation.

Because grief doesn't disappear.

It changes hands.

People walk into my room carrying things they don't know what to do with, and somehow I become the place they put them down.

I'm not a psychologist.

I'm not a trauma therapist.

I'm not qualified to debrief crisis workers after they've spent their day talking people off ledges.

I'm just a whore.

A whore who has seen more grief than most people realise.

I've held it in my hands while a pulse slowed and eventually stopped.

I've sat with it long after life had left the room because I couldn't stand the thought of someone being alone while we waited for their body to be taken away.

I've watched families receive news that split their lives into a before and an after.

I've carried grief through work with emergency services, through friendships, through loss, through life.

Not because I was trained to.

Because I happened to be there.

Maybe grief recognises grief.

He'll probably sleep better tonight.

I genuinely hope he does.

But now there's a teenager I've never met sitting quietly in the back of my mind.

Now there's another story that wasn't mine yesterday and somehow is today.

And that's the part nobody talks about.

People understand that sex workers provide intimacy.

What they don't understand is how often we provide containment.

How often we become confession booths.

How often we're handed things that are heavy, heartbreaking and deeply human.

And then we're expected to hold them with grace.

Without training.

Without supervision.

Without anyone asking what happens to us afterwards.

Most of the time, we manage.

Because we're human.

But sometimes I sit in my car after work and think:

"Mate, this is actually kind of fucked."

Not because I regret helping.

Not because I didn't want to be there.

But because somewhere along the way society decided that a whore was an appropriate place to leave a piece of its grief.

And nobody ever stopped to ask who was carrying mine.

[voxflux]

Boo...Hiss...Waahh...

I've not been sleeping much lately.

Not because of you.

The anxiety was already here.

The insomnia was already here.

You just happened to be gone while it was happening.

And it turns out that when you're awake at stupid hours of the morning, there's a lot more time to notice things.

The side of the bed that stays empty.

The absence of someone's touch.

The absence of their smell lingering on a shirt or a pillow.

The little things you don't think about when they're there.

I don't feel heartbroken.

I don't even think I'm particularly sad.

I just miss you.

And anxiety has given me far more hours than usual to sit with that feeling.

[voxflux]

Boo...Hiss...Waahh...

I've not been sleeping much lately.

Not because of you.

The anxiety was already here.

The insomnia was already here.

You just happened to be gone while it was happening.

And it turns out that when you're awake at stupid hours of the morning, there's a lot more time to notice things.

The side of the bed that stays empty.

The absence of someone's touch.

The absence of their smell lingering on a shirt or a pillow.

The little things you don't think about when they're there.

I don't feel heartbroken.

I don't even think I'm particularly sad.

I just miss you.

And anxiety has given me far more hours than usual to sit with that feeling.

[letsbelonelytogetherr]

— Melissa Cox

[voxflux]

I Love You But...

I love you but certainty feels harder to find than it did a week ago.

I love you but I keep circling the same questions and finding no new answers.

I love you but confusion has been louder than connection lately.

I love you but I don't know where to place my trust right now.

I love you but every reassurance seems to arrive with another doubt attached to it.

I love you but I feel further from understanding than I did before.

I love you but my anxiety has had more to hold onto than my confidence.

I love you but I am trying very hard not to let fear tell me what is true.

I love you.

But right now, that feels simpler than trust.

[voxflux]

I'll Just Do It Myself...

People think the hardest part of chronic pain is the pain.

It's not.

The hardest part is that it never fucking stops.

There is no day off.

No finish line.

No reward for enduring it.

No point where someone taps you on the shoulder and says:

"You've suffered enough now. You can rest."

It just keeps showing up.

Every morning.

Every errand.

Every shift.

Every conversation.

Every load of washing.

Every fucking day.

And after enough years, something changes.

You stop reacting to it.

Not because it hurts less.

Because reacting takes energy too.

People say:

"If you're in that much pain, why don't you tell people?"

Because telling people is exhausting.

Showing people is exhausting.

Crying is exhausting.

Explaining it is exhausting.

And because if I reacted honestly to the amount of pain I'm in some days, I'd spend half my life screaming.

So eventually you learn to shut the fuck up about it.

Not because you're okay.

Because there is no other option.

And the truth is, I didn't learn that lesson by myself.

It was taught to me.

Years of being told to get over it.

Years of hearing everyone else is tired too.

Years of people needing things from me regardless.

Years of learning that my pain wasn't going to stop the expectations.

The dishes still needed doing.

The washing still needed folding.

Someone still needed a lift.

Someone still needed help.

Someone still needed me to show up.

And if I said I couldn't?

There was an argument.

A sigh.

A guilt trip.

A lecture.

Disappointment.

Anger.

Or my personal favourite:

"Don't worry about it, you can do it tomorrow."

No.

Because tomorrow there'll be another thing.

And another thing.

And another thing.

And what I've learned over years and years of this is that if I want something done, I should probably just do it myself.

Not because I can.

Because it's easier than needing someone.

Easier than asking.

Easier than negotiating.

Easier than being disappointed.

Easier than finding out, yet again, that the help I needed wasn't actually available.

So I do it.

I clean the house.

I carry the groceries.

I drive when I shouldn't.

I push through.

I burn myself out.

Because at least then I know it'll get done.

People call that resilience.

I don't.

I call it a lack of trust.

And maybe that's the part that hurts the most.

Not the pain itself.

The fact that I've spent so long carrying everything alone that asking for help feels harder than suffering.

The fact that I don't trust rest.

I don't trust that things won't fall apart if I stop.

I don't trust that someone else will pick up the slack.

I don't trust that my pain will be treated as a reason instead of an excuse.

And meanwhile people look at me and say:

"But you seem fine."

Fine.

I can be in pain levels that would put a healthy person in an Emergency Department and still be making jokes.

Still answering messages.

Still going to work.

Still smiling.

Still cleaning my kitchen.

Not because it doesn't hurt.

Because my version of pain and your version of pain stopped being measured on the same scale years ago.

A healthy person's 10/10 pain is an emergency.

A chronic pain person's 10/10 pain is often a Tuesday.

I can be in agony and the only visible clue is that I'm quieter than normal.

Or snappy.

Or I disappear early.

That's it.

Because functionality and comfort are not the same thing.

They're not even close.

And then there's the part nobody talks about.

The part that's ugly.

The part people get uncomfortable hearing.

The days where the pain is so relentless that my brain starts looking for exits.

Not because I want to die.

Because I want the pain to stop.

There is a difference.

A massive difference.

But when your body hurts every single day, for years, sometimes your brain starts desperately trying to solve an unsolvable problem.

It wants a pause button.

A mute button.

A break.

Five minutes of silence.

One day where existing doesn't feel like dragging a broken body through wet concrete.

And then you get up anyway.

You feed the cat.

You go to work.

You answer messages.

You do the washing.

You make dinner.

You keep living.

Because life doesn't stop.

Pain doesn't exempt you from living.

And living doesn't exempt you from pain.

So people see me functioning.

They see me showing up.

They see me getting things done.

And they assume I must be coping.

What they don't see is that some days I am white-knuckling my way through existence.

They don't see the cost.

They don't see the exhaustion.

They don't see the fury.

They don't see how unfair it feels.

They don't see how much energy it takes just to survive inside a body that never shuts up.

They just see that I got the dishes done.

And I suppose that's the cruel joke of chronic pain.

The better you get at carrying it, the less anybody realises how heavy it is.

[voxflux]

A Series Of Increasingly Concerning Symptoms...

One of the weird things about having chronic pain and anxiety is that eventually your symptom checker becomes:

"Well, that's normal."

Numb arms?

Normal.

Neck pain?

Normal.

Shoulder pain?

Normal.

Chest pain?

Unfortunately also normal.

Shortness of breath?

Depends on the day.

So there I was, driving through Sydney traffic, having a perfectly ordinary stressful day, feeling very proud of myself for navigating several lanes of absolute nonsense without causing an international incident.

And then my left arm went numb.

Which is fine.

My arms do that.

Then I got this sharp pain through the left side of my neck.

Which is also fine.

I have neck pain all the time.

Then my shoulder started hurting.

Then the pain went down my back.

Then came the shortness of breath.

Then the crushing chest pain.

And that's when I found myself having the deeply unfortunate realisation that while all of these symptoms are individually normal for me...

...they had never assembled like Voltron before.

Now, logically, I wasn't especially worried.

I've had a cardiac workup.

My heart is fine.

Objectively, statistically, medically, my heart was probably the least suspicious thing involved.

But there is a point where enough symptoms join forces that you have to stop and think:

"Well. I guess this is either anxiety, inflammation, some weird chronic illness bullshit, or I'm about to absolutely ruin everyone's day."

So I calmly continued driving.

Dropped my partner off at his teaching job.

Told him I was heading to Kmart afterwards.

Which was technically true.

Just with a small, unplanned detour to the nearest Emergency Department.

And honestly, walking into Emergency and saying:

"Hi. So all of these symptoms are normal individually, but they've never all happened at the same time before and I kind of think I might be dying?"

Is a very strange conversation to have.

Anyway.

I wasn't dying.

Everything was fine.

I was discharged.

But the final insult came afterwards.

Because after doing the responsible thing.

After seeking medical attention.

After overcoming the deeply ingrained urge to ignore my symptoms and simply become a medical mystery for somebody else to solve later.

I went to Kmart.

As a treat.

A little reward for being a very brave 30-year-old little girl.

And three minutes after I walked in, the entire fucking store was evacuated.

No treat.

No emotional support purchase.

No "you did a good job not ignoring the potential medical emergency" reward.

Just an Emergency Department visit, a false alarm, and being gently escorted out of Kmart by fate itself.

Honestly if I had been having a heart attack, at least I would have got a treat out of it... probably.

[voxflux]

Marked: Ongoing...

Yesterday we did the trauma conversation.

The big one.

The "here are the things that shaped me, here are the things that still follow me, here are the reasons some buttons are wired the way they are" conversation.

He already knew about the car accident.

What he didn't know was what came after.

That after watching my partner at the time lying there motionless and not breathing, something in my brain changed.

For the rest of that relationship, I would wake up and check they were breathing.

Not because I wanted to.

Because I couldn't not.

And after we broke up, I caught myself doing it a handful of times with other people. Mostly my best friend.

Not often.

Just enough that it never really left.

I'd never connected the dots.

Never really thought about it.

It was just one of those strange little behaviours that sat quietly in the background of my life.

Then this morning happened.

I woke up before him.

Looked over.

And suddenly I wasn't in my bed anymore.

I was right back there.

My chest tightened.

My heart started racing.

And before I even realised what was happening, I was having a full-blown panic attack because some ancient part of my brain had become convinced that if I didn't make sure he was breathing, he would die.

Not "what if."

Not anxiety.

Certainty.

The kind that bypasses logic completely.

The kind that doesn't care that you're an adult, or that it's been years, or that statistically everything is fine.

The kind that grabs the steering wheel and floors it.

And I think what unsettled me most wasn't the panic attack.

It was realising that yesterday, while we were talking about our trauma, I genuinely thought I was telling him a story from my past.

Turns out Grief had quietly filed it under ongoing issue.

And I had absolutely no idea.

[voxflux]

Fix That One...

I've booked in to see a sex and relationship therapist.

Which feels very responsible and emotionally mature of me.

The problem is I have absolutely no idea how to explain what I need help with.

Not because everything is fine.

Quite the opposite.

I know there's work to do.

I can feel it.

I keep stumbling across these weird reactions, old beliefs, shame spirals, fears, attachment wounds, whatever the fuck they are.

I just can't point at them directly.

It's like I need to record every difficult conversation and bring it into therapy like game footage.

Pause.

Point at the screen.

"That."

"See that right there?"

"Why did I do that?"

"Why did my brain immediately decide this was a threat?"

"Why did I suddenly feel rejected?"

"Why did I need reassurance?"

"Why did I feel ashamed?"

"Fix that one."

Because I don't seem to discover these things through self-reflection.

I discover them live.

In real time.

Mid-conversation.

Mid-argument.

Mid-panic.

Like I'll be having a completely normal interaction and suddenly my brain kicks a door off its hinges and yells:

"SURPRISE. THIS IS CONNECTED TO SOMETHING FROM 15 YEARS AGO."

And then refuses to elaborate.

The really frustrating part is that I know what I want.

I want to heal.

I want to unlearn things.

I want healthier relationship habits.

I want to stop dragging old survival strategies into places they're no longer needed.

I just don't know how to articulate what's actually happening underneath it all.

It's like taking your car to a mechanic and saying:

"I don't know what's wrong with it, but every now and then a warning light comes on and I become convinced the engine is going to explode."

At this point my therapy goals are basically:

Step 1: Something feels off.

Step 2: Can we figure out what the fuck that was?

Step 3: Fix that one.

And then we'll repeat the process until I stop accidentally discovering new character lore.

[voxflux]

Grace Entered The Archives...

I think I've always known Grief as a caretaker.

Not a destroyer.

Not something that takes.

Something that keeps.

Because so many things have happened in my life that I wasn't ready to understand when they happened.

So Grief carried them.

Stored them.

Protected them.

Waiting until I had enough distance, enough perspective, enough safety to come back.

And lately, Grief has been around a lot.

Not because this relationship is hurting me.

Because it's the safest I've ever felt.

Because when someone looked at me, knew there would be difficult conversations, knew there would be healing, knew there were entire parts of me neither of us had explored yet, and still said:

"I'm choosing to be here."

Something changed.

Not in him.

In me.

And I think Grief noticed.

Grief didn't hand me any files.

Instead,

Grief took my hand.

I think Grace took the other.

And together they walked me into a completely different wing of the archives.

One I didn't even know existed.

Not to make me read anything.

Not to make me relive anything.

Just to show me around.

To point at shelves and boxes and rooms I'd never realised were there.

"This is where you've kept all the beliefs about being chosen."

"This is where you've stored all the times you felt replaceable."

"This is where you've been living from without realising it."

And suddenly I understood something.

Not what the work was.

But where.

And weirdly, that didn't feel overwhelming.

Because Grace was there too.

I've met Grace before.

Grace sat beside me through chronic pain, diagnoses, surgeries, and all the moments my body demanded I learn compassion.

But I'd never met Grace here.

In the rooms about belonging.

About worthiness.

About being chosen.

And I think Grace arrived because Grief knew I couldn't walk into this part of the archives alone.

Not because it was dangerous.

Because it was important.

And while all of this was happening—while Grief was quietly showing me where the next stage of healing lived, while Grace reminded me I was safe enough to look—he was just sitting in front of me.

Holding my hand.

Completely unaware that in the space of a few seconds, I'd been taken on a tour of a part of myself I didn't even know existed.

And I think that's why I cried.

Not because I realised how much work there is to do.

Because for the first time in a long time, I could see where to begin.