Almost teared up in the bathroom when I was trying to take a dump as I was fanatizing an imaginary conversation where I was freely unloading all my sadness and baggages to my friends. Good effort. I was crying in my imagination while squatting with an emotionless expression in real life, unable to shit.

TL;DR unloaded in my imagination; couldn’t unload in the bathroom.

Reccuring

A story re-told. Written in stone, cannot be thrown. Elementary grade writing. A seemingly futile effort. To forget? To repress.

A story over-told. A popular episode. Coincidentally on TV. Sometimes a quick glimpse. Commonly waiting for the finale. until now, ending unknown.

A story unending. Always there.

A story of mine. A story of me.

Paused. For now.

Acceptance.

Loneliness.

Jealousy.

Fatigue.

One of my clients asked if I had kids of my own.

She’s been one of the loveliest and kindest client/trainers in the company. We’ve gotten into the habit of making smalltalk and sharing stuff about each other beyond the boundaries of employee-employer relationships. She’s become a friend.

Yet I still find it uncomfortable to out myself. I usually need the help of someone saying it for me. I guess I’ll never be comfortable admitting it even though I’m no longer in the closet.

I guess part of me is still afraid that things might change when people find out. Perhaps they’ll treat me differently. Perhaps their perception of me might change. This is most likely the trauma talking. But no matter how nice she was, I just couldn’t bring myself to correct her.

What a sad realization.