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Control Me Freely.

There’s space now. To breathe, to feel. But the more room I have, the more lost I get. It’s help—I know that—but why do I keep pushing it away? Why do I choose the harder path when there’s an easier one right in front of me? It’s not about ease, really. It’s this structure I’ve built around myself. If I step outside of it, I feel like I’ll fall apart.

I think I’ve grown used to the weight, to the constant pressure that keeps me grounded. Without it, I’m scared I won’t know how to stand. The pain, the tension, the worry—it’s all I’ve known. And the thought of letting it go? It feels dangerous, like I’d lose control completely.

Is it possible to be afraid of freedom? To be scared of what happens if I let go and trust someone or something else to keep me steady? I want that freedom, I really do, but it feels risky, like it’ll leave me too open. There’s a strange kind of safety in the struggle, in the chaos I know how to handle. If I stray too far from that, if I let myself breathe too easily, I think I’d lose my grip, like everything would slip away.

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