Date: 12/15/2025
Mood: Sad
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I reread every message the way My nervious system is taught to reread rooms looking for tone, for danger, for the moment I become “too much” or suddenly invisible. Missing him felt less like love and more like habit shaped by survival.
I question where my anger belongs— with him, for what he allowed, or with his mother, for the racism I was expected to endure quietly. Both wounds exist. Neither cancels the other.
The mental health toll of that experience still lingers. Being hurt by him was one thing. Being expected to endure racism and stay composed was another.
