Laisse-Moi M'asseoir Avec Toi
- Lira Wren Whitley
- Jun 14
- 2 min read
Everything is red. It’s no longer a haze of grey or the too harsh glare of the ringlight you used to film your TikToks under. Tainted. Stained. Pouring out of your wrists along with the tears. You told yourself it didn’t hurt that much, and you really thought you were getting better.
But that’s the danger- by the time you realized that relapse was even a possibility, much less your current reality, it was too late. You did so well convincing yourself and others that you were fine for so long. You smiled at the right parts. You put on makeup and dressed up when you went out to hide the damage underneath.
And for a while, it worked. If you could just keep going like this and pushing everything down, focusing on the good or finding some tangible reason to stay holding on for just a moment longer so the spark could burst into a steady flame, then everything would be fine. Your skin was healing.
Your eyes shone a little brighter. Your clothes fit better. Sometimes, the laughter was even real instead of forced. What a beautifully careful mask you crafted there out of the broken armor surrounding you. You’re still trying.
Still showing up. Still assigning meaning to things. The young girl who grew into you would be proud that you held on this long. To stay strong and protect what little of yourself you have left that was worth saving from that age. Giving her the gentle reassurance in a world full of gaslighting and cruelty that would make even the devil weep.
It’s been one hell of a battle. For decades, carrying this around in your chest with no real safe outlet to heal. Sometimes, though, relapse can be the only thing that anchors you to the present so that you can fight for another day. It doesn’t always mean the end. I know you’re exhausted, and there’s a silent war waging inside your head.
No matter the choice, you were so brave and so strong for making it this far. You, whose odds were always stacked impossibly high against you, trying to navigate the rules of a rigged game not designed for someone like you, with only a quarter of the manual translated to your mother tongue.
There’s no blame or shame or guilt here. Only quiet understanding. Because I know what it’s like to feel this way. To be so low that you’re shaking violently against the cool tiles and stifling sobs so no one knows that it happened. Don’t burden others. Don’t give them a reason to leave you or label you as crazy or too much lest you lose what little reasons you scramble to stay here for.
So if tonight all I can do is exist in this space with you so that you don’t weather this storm alone, then let me pull up a blanket and let you at least know that you aren’t alone.
