There was a version of me that had to die.
He was reckless. He chased highs to escape the lows. He numbed himself instead of facing his pain. He ran from his past because he didn’t know how to deal with it.
Letting him go felt like a funeral. But if I didn’t bury him, he was going to take me with him.
The day I killed off that version of myself was the day I took my life back. And yeah, he tried to come back more times than I can count. But every time, I reminded myself:
He had his time. Now it’s my turn.
What part of the old you still needs to go?