The Change

Well, journal...

Now that the dust has settled, you’d think the storm inside me would quiet down too. But nah, not yet. I still struggle. It’s different now, though. It’s not the same kind of hell it used to be.

Back then, it was all suicidal ideations. Heavy shit. There were days I didn’t even recognize myself—just this shadow of a man, barely hanging on. I used to feel like the pain inside was so loud the only way to silence it was to disappear completely.

But now? It’s changed. Morphed into something darker, meaner. Now my mind drifts into fantasies of revenge. Not on myself anymore, but on them—the ones who lied to me, betrayed me, used me, broke me down like I was disposable.

I don’t just want justice. I want them to feel it. I want them to know what it’s like to carry this pain in their bones. I want their smiles to crack under the weight of what they’ve done. I want the truth to burn them like it scorched me.

Sometimes I imagine their faces—blank, confused, finally understanding the destruction they caused. I imagine their tears. Their shame. And yeah, it makes me feel something. Not peace, not healing… but something. Maybe power? Maybe control? I don’t know.

That’s where I scare myself. Because those thoughts—those vivid, detailed fantasies—they’re starting to feel... comfortable. Like slipping into a worn leather jacket that used to be too heavy.

But I’ve learned to pause. That’s one thing DBT’s given me: the power of observing without reacting. I can acknowledge the thoughts without becoming them. I can sit with the fire and not burn down everything around me—or inside me.

I tell myself this is just part of the process. I’m grieving the old me. Grieving the trust I gave away. Grieving the pieces of me I’ll never get back.

It’s okay to be angry. It’s okay to want justice. But I have to be careful not to let that desire rot into obsession. I’ve clawed my way out of hell once—I don’t want to turn around and go there again.

So yeah, I still struggle. I’m not where I want to be. But I’m not where I was either. And maybe that counts for something. Maybe just putting these words down means I haven’t given in.

I’m still here. Still trying. Still fighting not to become the very thing that hurt me.