Writing Prompt #210:

I don’t know if peaches tastes good with condensed milk....

Words can’t fully capture how I’m feeling today.

Maybe “shitty” is the closest way to describe it.

Anyway, I have a therapy session tomorrow, and I’ve decided it’ll be my last one with this therapist. I need to transition to a psychiatrist to get a formal diagnosis—my provisional diagnosis still hasn’t been released, and honestly, I just miss my original therapist.

When I was working with her, I felt like I was making real progress. Every session was productive, and I could feel myself growing. With my current therapist, it’s different. I feel unheard, like she’s focusing on things I’ve already moved past or on situations that don’t align with where I’m at mentally right now. Maybe that’s just her approach, but it’s not working for me.

IDK. I’m just ready for clarity and to feel like I’m actually moving forward again.

attachment issues?

It was 2021, and I had just come out of a relationship with someone who was extremely possessive. It was like I could finally breathe again. For the first time in years, I felt free—free to hold my phone without constantly glancing over my shoulder, free to choose what I wanted to wear, free to spend time with friends, and attend parties without the weight of someone else’s control. It was empowering.

But that freedom didn’t come without its struggles. In the first few months of being on my own, I was hit with a wave of anxiety and uncertainty. I had been so used to someone else dictating my life that I didn’t know how to fully navigate it on my own. It was a strange feeling—after fighting so hard to get out of a relationship that stifled me, I found myself a little lost.

No longer having someone control me was a relief, but it also meant I had to adjust to taking responsibility for everything myself. The simple things I’d once been comfortable letting him handle were now on me. It was daunting, but I reminded myself that I’d fought for this freedom. I wasn’t going to let the discomfort pull me back into old habits.

One of the hardest parts was getting back online and socializing again. I had fallen off the radar for almost two years—no social media posts, no updates, nothing. So when I finally reappeared on Facebook, my friends were shocked. The first messages I received were along the lines of, "Wow, where have you been?!" They were right—two years is a long time to go dark.

Reconnecting wasn’t as easy as I thought it would be. I struggled to respond to messages and reach out to people. It was like I had forgotten how to socialize after being isolated for so long. I felt out of place, like I didn’t quite belong in the world I’d left behind. I wanted to rekindle friendships, but I was afraid. Afraid of rejection, afraid of the awkwardness, and afraid of not being the same person they used to know.

But little by little, I’m finding my way back. It hasn’t been smooth or easy, but I’m learning to embrace this new chapter of independence. Every day, I remind myself that this journey is mine to navigate, and no matter how slow the progress, I’m moving forward.

Saying goodbye to someone you once loved hits differently—it feels like you’re losing a piece of yourself, like the life you built together is slipping away. But as time passes, you start to see it for what it is: not a loss, but a chance to rediscover yourself and take back your heart. You learn to put your own needs, dreams, and happiness first. That’s where I am now, standing in that new, unfamiliar freedom.

No, I don’t want you back. Not in the way I once thought I would. We’ve grown older, and, more importantly, we’ve grown apart. The connection that once kept us close has faded, and with it, my need for you. I’ve taken that step many fear – the step towards reclaiming my own life, apart from the one we shared.

In the process of moving forward, I found myself rediscovering who I am. When you're with someone for so long, it's easy to lose yourself. You start compromising, blending your personality to fit theirs, and sometimes you forget the things that made you... you. But now, after letting go, I’ve started to rebuild. I’ve taken back my heart, my sense of self, and with that came the courage to start fresh.

I packed my bags and moved to a new city – the place where I was supposed to restart, to thrive, and find my footing. But instead, I’ve found myself feeling… nothing. It’s not that I expected things to immediately fall into place, but there’s an emptiness I can’t shake. It’s like I’m in the right spot for a new beginning, but my heart and mind just aren’t ready to bloom yet.

It’s strange. I’ve planted myself in fertile soil – a new city, new surroundings, new opportunities – but I refuse to let anything take root. I know there’s the potential for something beautiful to grow, whether it’s new friendships, a new love, or simply a new sense of belonging. Yet, for now, I’ve been keeping everything at a distance.

Maybe it’s fear. Fear of letting anything new take hold, knowing that it could uproot me once again. Or maybe it’s just that I need more time to heal, more time to understand who I am in this new chapter of my life. It’s hard to open up when you’ve just closed a door that was such a big part of your identity.

But even if I feel nothing at the moment, I know it’s temporary. I know that, eventually, something will take root – whether I let it or not. Life has a way of moving forward, even when we resist it. So, while I might not be ready right now, I’m learning to be patient with myself. I’m learning that it’s okay to not feel like I’m flourishing just yet. The seeds of growth are there; they’re just waiting for the right time to sprout.

For now, I’ll keep rediscovering myself, taking back more pieces of my heart and soul. And when the time comes, I’ll be ready to let something beautiful grow.

I mourn my youth

I mourn my youth with a sorrow that feels almost unbearable. Not because it’s gone but because I realize I never truly lived it.

I ache for all the moments I let slip by, the countless chances I ignored, thinking there’d always be more time. I regret the nights I should have spent out, surrounded by laughter and people who would have helped me feel alive. Instead, I stayed in the shadows, clinging to comfort and safety, only to find out too late that those things would cost me the memories I could never make.

I think of all the times I chose sleep over adventure, the days I kept my life small and predictable instead of going somewhere new. I missed the thrill of being spontaneous, of packing a bag and leaving without knowing where I’d end up. I missed places that could have shown me how vast and beautiful the world really is, places I’ll only ever know through the stories of others who dared to go.

And the people—I mourn them most of all. I wonder about the friendships that never had a chance to grow, the faces I never got to know because I was too scared to take a step toward them. There were probably kindred souls, people who would have understood me better than I understood myself, waiting somewhere in the world. But I kept to my familiar circle, never daring to reach out, and now they’re strangers I’ll never meet.

I look back, and it’s almost unbearable to realize how much I lost. I wish I could go back and tell my younger self to be brave, to take the risks, to live as if these days would eventually run out. But all I have now is this ache, this haunting feeling of a life half-lived. And the hardest part is knowing that these missed moments will forever be just that—echoes of a life I could have had but never did.

Maybe I wasn’t praying hard enough. Maybe He has another plan— a beautiful one. But God, that was so painful. I don’t have anyone to talk to, and no one takes me seriously. Maybe it’s because I always laugh at tragedy, having grown so used to it.

I broke my own heart that day.

He was kind. Nice. And I’m sure he’s a great friend. I saw him for the first time today, and I never thought it would be the last time I’d ever see him.

There was something about the way he smiled, the way his voice carried warmth like a quiet melody. It wasn’t a grand moment—no fireworks or fated encounters—just a fleeting interaction that somehow left its mark on me. Maybe that’s why it hurt so much.

I knew from the beginning that I couldn’t have him, that we were just two strangers passing each other on the street of life. But the heart has a strange way of getting attached to possibilities that never were. It was my own mind weaving stories where none existed, my own emotions building a bridge to nowhere.

And that’s where the heartbreak came. Not from anything he did or said, but from my own actions, my silent hopes. In the end, it was him who chose to walk away, and I, knowing there was no path forward.

But it still stung, that quiet realization: I had broken my own heart, in a moment that no one else would ever know existed.

Every night you dream that you talk to a genie, when you wake up you can't remember what you wished for. One morning you wake up with a giant crab pincer replacing your right arm. What do you do?

Dreams are strange things. They take us to places beyond our imagination, and sometimes, they’re so vivid that we wake up questioning what’s real. For weeks now, I’ve been having a recurring dream where I talk to a genie every night. The weird part? I could never remember what I wished for when I woke up. It was like my subconscious was playing hide-and-seek with the details, leaving me with a hazy memory of the conversation but no clue what I’d actually asked for.

But then came that morning. The one where I opened my eyes, stretched out my right arm, and… it wasn’t there. Instead of my usual hand and arm, a massive crab pincer had taken its place. I froze, staring at the monstrous claw attached to my shoulder, a mix of horror and disbelief washing over me. This couldn’t be real, could it? I had to be dreaming still, right?

I did what any rational person would do: I pinched myself with the claw. Let me tell you, crab pincers are no joke. The pain was very real, and with that, the reality of the situation sunk in. Somehow, someway, my dream wish had manifested into this bizarre and terrifying reality.

After the initial shock, the questions flooded in. How could this have happened? Why a crab pincer, of all things? I tried to think back to the previous night’s dream, but as always, the memory was foggy. Maybe I’d wished for something vague, like “strength” or “protection,” and the genie had interpreted that in the weirdest possible way. Or perhaps I’d made some offhand joke about having a tough exterior. Whatever the reason, here I was, the unfortunate owner of a giant crustacean claw.

So, what do you do when you wake up with a crab pincer for an arm? First, I panicked. Then, I did what I always do when life throws something inexplicable at me: I adapted.

I spent the next few days learning to navigate life with my new appendage. Simple tasks like opening doors, brushing my teeth, or even typing became Herculean challenges. But with practice, I started to get the hang of it. I learned to use the pincer delicately, avoiding crushing everything I touched. I even found it had some unexpected perks—like cracking open coconuts or, if I’m being honest, scaring off unwanted attention.

But beyond the practicalities, this experience forced me to think deeply about identity and change. How much of who we are is tied to our physical form? How do we adapt when something so fundamental about ourselves is altered overnight? The crab pincer became a symbol of resilience, a reminder that even in the face of the absurd, we have the power to adapt, to find humor, and to continue moving forward.

In the end, I’ve come to embrace my new reality, as strange as it is. I still don’t know what I wished for that led to this, and maybe I never will. But maybe that’s the point. Life is unpredictable, and sometimes, the wishes we make in the depths of our dreams lead to outcomes we never could have imagined. The important thing is how we respond to those outcomes—how we choose to grow, change, and find strength, even when life hands us something as bizarre as a crab pincer for an arm.

And who knows, maybe tonight I’ll dream of that genie again and finally get some answers. Until then, I’ll keep pinching myself—both literally and figuratively—just to remind myself that this wild journey is, indeed, real.

No I love yous