The first
times are always the most difficult times for me.
I am sick
of the first times.
I am sick of how the first times have always made me feel.
I am sick
of the first times.
I am sick of helplessly whispering to myself that I and
everything will be okay when I know for sure that it’s not.
I am sick
of the first times.
I am sick of how I desperately look for other people to be
my anchor because I know for sure that I will sink.
At the
first times, I always sink.
It’s just a matter of time.
I am sick
of the first times.
I am sick of my decision to go to the first times then go
home feeling that I’m not enough, and that I can never be.
I am sick of my decision to not go to the first times and stay
at home feeling that I’m not enough, and that I can never be.
I am sick of the first times.
I am sick of rarely being brave enough to take risks and
ended up hugging what’s left of me.
I am sick of finally being brave enough to
take risks and ended up losing what’s left of me.
I am sick
of the first times.
I am sick of how no matter I have survived the first times,
I am still left with negative emotions I couldn’t completely grasp, tears I
couldn’t completely shed, and moments I couldn’t completely enjoy.
I am sick
of the first times.
I am sick of hearing my heart pounding. I am sick of
feeling sweat making traces on my forehead, my back, my knees, my mind, my
consciousness—but do I still have any? Do I ever have any?
I am sick
of being lightheaded when the rest of me—the rest of the world is heavy.
I am
sick of not having control of myself.
I am sick of not fully being myself.
I am sick
of fully being myself.
There are times when I could survive the first
times.
The fact that I experienced the first time makes my next encounter with similar
things would be the second time.
Just the thought of the second time makes everything
somehow easier—just like how the thought of the first time makes everything
somehow harder.
There are
times when I could survive the first times.
But today
is not that time.
Today is
when I’ve been convincing myself that this time would be a successful first
time.
But it is not.
Today is
when I’ve been picturing myself show up and have fun with friends at my first
time.
But it is not.
Today is
when I’ve been telling myself that I will overcome this first time and no
longer being paranoid with any other first times.
But, of course, it is not.
There are times when I could survive the first times.
But today is not that time.
Today is
when I nervously changed outfits three times while being distracted by all the
voices inside me that keep on echoing hundreds different versions of what-if-s
and no matter how hard I tried to fight it I just knew since the very beginning
that this time I couldn’t win.
Today is
when I ended up curl up in bed screaming with no voices, crying with no tears,
hating myself more than anything I’ve ever hated.
There are times when I could survive the first times.
But today is not that time.
But today is not that time.
Today is when I fail and dark parts of me win.
Today I let
them dominate me—justifying that they still have power over me.
Today I am
powerless.
Today I am not the master of my own self.
I hate the
first times.
I hate how
it has made me feel.
But I hate
myself more.
I hate
myself the most.
