I healed myself so hard that my sleeping schedule agreed

I didn’t run away—I stayed until the storms calmed themselves with my raw-wounded presence.

Switching my mentality from “I am homeless and abandoned by things that didn’t actually belong to me” to “I am owned by the finest permanent possessions.”

10pm tears, screams, and insomniac 3am sessions have unending layers. I actually set boundaries and scare people with my silence until each coating decreases.

I didn’t know how to love my weak points, so I started hating them. But was I really ignorant, or was it that no one really taught me?

“Live even if it’s scary.” But when will I live calmly?

Recently, my bed asked me more to take a rest than anyone else did. So I started listening to it, and I was convinced by my good dreams to make peace with the scratches of my past.

I am now restarting to do hobbies I paused, made a comeback with my favorite color, and grooved with forgiveness—I recovered good things before they appeared to be deleted by my dilemmas and finally broke what made me think I do not look good being in a relationship with rest.