Crow and Flame

They look at scars and think they understand the storm.

They hear one chapter and decide they know the whole story.

“You’re overreacting.”
“You’re dramatic.”
“You’re crazy.”
“You just want attention.”

But they have never stood inside this body when the memories wake like fire under the skin.
They have never felt grief arrive like a tidal wave with nowhere for it to go.
They have never sat in the silence after surviving something that rewired the nervous system into a constant state of alarm.

They have not walked these roads.
And truthfully, I have not walked theirs either.

But unlike some people, I do not look at another person’s pain and announce judgment like I am qualified to measure suffering.

Because pain is not a competition.
Survival is not weakness.
And struggling does not make someone broken.

Some days the urges come quietly.
A whisper.
A familiar ache.
The mind searching for release, for control, for something sharp enough to interrupt the chaos inside.

Other days they arrive like a flood.

Restlessness crawling beneath the skin.
Thoughts spiraling so fast they blur together.
The overwhelming need to escape yourself for even one second.
To trade emotional pain for physical sensation because at least physical pain can be located. Explained. Seen.

It is hard to describe to someone who has never experienced it.

The war between wanting relief and wanting to heal.
The exhaustion of fighting your own mind while still answering emails, making dinner, showing up to work, smiling at strangers in grocery store aisles.

And still—
every day—
I make a choice.

To stay.
To fight.
To carry this weight instead of surrendering to it.

Not perfectly.
Not gracefully.
But intentionally.

Some nights coping skills feel small against enormous waves.
But small things still keep people alive.

Cold water against trembling hands.
Stepping outside and letting cold air interrupt the spiral.
Music loud enough to drown intrusive thoughts.
Writing the feelings instead of becoming them.
Calling someone safe.
Holding ice cubes until the nervous system settles.
Breathing through the first ten minutes instead of acting inside them.
Letting the crows carry the grief instead of carving it into skin.

Healing is not linear.
Sometimes survival looks beautiful.
Sometimes it looks like making it through the night without giving in.

And that still counts.

So before you call someone crazy for the way they survive,
remember:

You have no idea how hard they are fighting to remain here.

The strongest people are often the ones quietly resisting battles no one else can see.