My style is to avoid all confrontation. To hold everything inside, and tuck my tail between my legs when I’m wrong. My style is to freeze up and lose the ability to speak, while instead the words silently pour down my face in teardrops. My style is to apologize profusely, so much so that sorry becomes meaningless garbage littering the floor. My style is to hide in the bathroom and cry. To allow my brain to work against me and berate myself over and over again in my head. Stupid, selfish, worthless, bitch. My style is to find my imperfections and exaggerate them in my head. To punish myself for my wrong doings. My style is to recognize when I’m spiraling into a panic attack but doing nothing to stop it. To imagine all the hateful things there were left unsaid, perhaps not even thought by anyone else, and hurt myself with them.
My style is to go to sleep it off through the night. To wake up emotionally sore, carefully testing the ground before moving too quickly. But my style is also to pick up again and move forward, because no matter how stormy the night, the sunrise is always beautiful.