It came quietly, like most dangerous things do. Not with chaos. at least not at first. Just a small shift. Something that didn’t feel wrong at the time. that I thought I was managing. Something I thought was mine to control.
I kept feeding it. I didn’t ask what it was or what it wanted. I didn’t have the language for that. All I knew was it needed something, and I had it. Over time, it got comfortable. Took up space. I mean, isn’t that how you’re supposed to keep the peace?
Some days it would disappear, and I’d think it was gone. Fixed. Like I’d outgrown it. But then I’d wake up and it would be there again, hungrier than before. It didn’t speak in words. Just heaviness. Just rituals. Just this pressure in my chest that said, “You know what to do.”
I didn’t name it. Maybe I should’ve. Maybe giving it a name would’ve helped draw a line between where it ends and where I begin. But I didn’t. I still don’t. I just know it’s something I’ve been keeping alive.
It didn’t grow teeth overnight. It didn’t growl or slam doors. It just sat there, patiently, watching. And I kept showing up. Spoon in hand. Telling myself I was in control. Telling myself it would stop once it had enough.
But it never had enough.
And now, I look at it. at this thing I’ve kept nurturing. and I’m not sure if I’ve been feeding it, or if it’s been feeding on me.
