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The table could recant the depths of my fears—fears I hide from everyone. It knows how scared I am of being alone, how I loathe feeling so ill-equipped to deal with my life. And how I hate being exposed to anything that might cause me more problems. Or pain. One thing is also true: your life can’t be destroyed if you don’t allow people access.
I haven’t slept well in years. For some reason, my brain just decides to turn on as soon as the sun goes down, and I replay everything I’ve ever said, everything I didn’t say, and every missed opportunity and humiliating event.
It’s not easy to verbalize the things going on inside my head. It’s as if I let them out, they become real. That the world will latch on to my fears and twist them into some sick reality.