Diaries of a Twenty-Six-Year Old Girl

Emotions are manipulators.

And fear is the worst of them all.
He’ll lock you in your mind, and throw away the key.

While he shouts at you, saying the world is dangerous—
and only he can keep you safe,
you just need to listen to him.

“He’s not controlling,” you’ll say.
“He’s protective.”

Maybe.
Or maybe you’re just scared—
because without him, there’d be nothing holding you back.

No excuses between you and the life you want.
So you cling to him, his warm cashmere sweater,
calling it safety instead of what it is:

a cage.

Shame wants you too.
He doesn’t raise his voice—he leans in close.

“You shouldn’t eat that.”
“You’re too much again.”

He tells you.

And you believe him.
Of course you do.

You want to be perfect,
and you need him to stay in line.

“Come here,” he says,
“I’ll keep you in check.”
Just don’t leave me either.

Guilt!

He’ll keep you up at night—
but he’s terrible in bed.
He tells you you’re only lovable when you overextend,
when you bend and please.

Boundaries?
Why would you need those
when your only job is to be agreeable?

You’ll do everything for him, and get nothing in return.

And doubt—
doubt is charming.

He keeps you guessing, to keep you small.
“Are you sure you can do that?”
he asks, over and over,
until your confidence is shot.

Then he softens,
wraps an arm around your shoulder,
kisses your head and says—
“Don’t worry, you’ll get in next time baby.”

With his fingers crossed behind his back.

Because if you believed in yourself,
you’d never need him.

Emotions can feel like truth.
A home that keeps you safe.

But some of them don’t protect you.

They keep you small, persuading you to stay.