I used to sit in a corner—
though sometimes,
that corner only existed
in my mind.
A quiet space I made for myself
when the world felt too loud.
When my body was present,
but my spirit was not.
I dissociated.
I lived there.
That space became a home
I never meant to build.
I always tried to see the best in people.
Even before I had a name
for what I carried inside me—
the disorder, the ache,
the waves that rose without warning—
I understood struggle
because I lived it.
And so,
if you showed me your pain,
I invited you in.
I saw past the surface.
I stood in your shoes,
not just to witness,
but to help you mend.
Because I wanted to understand.
I wanted to help.
I wanted to hold what hurt you
so you wouldn’t have to carry it alone.
But being an empath
in a world starving
to be seen—
to be understood,
to pour pain into someone else
like an empty glass—
that’s dangerous.
Because the world
will drink you dry.
Everyone has a reflection.
Some hide from it.
Some stare it down.
But mirrors exist everywhere.
And pain?
It’s always staring back—
you’re just choosing
to look away.
When he placed his pain on me
as if I could absorb it,
at first—
I did.
Or I thought I could.
But you can’t carry
someone else’s wound
and save yourself too.
Still,
he poured into me
as if I were a vessel
made only to hold
what broke him.
And when he looked in my direction,
he didn’t see me.
Only his own reflection.
So when the walls of his restraint broke,
when he was drunk enough
to forget his fences,
I became his enemy.
The one he raged against.
The one who took the blow.
The one who stood
where he thought his pain belonged.
We all have a fence.
A fragile boundary
that keeps us from tearing
the world—or each other—apart.
When we let it fall,
what’s uncivilized
finds freedom.
And everything hurts.
So I created two versions of me:
the me I was
when he wasn’t himself,
and the me I pretended to be
so I could keep surviving.
I made excuses for him,
like I was responsible
for his destruction.
I tried to be his shoulder.
His soft place to land.
But I didn’t see the parts of myself
being slowly stripped away.
Others did.
They tried to save me.
But I kept insisting—
“But…he needs me.”
And then the day came—
not of defeat,
but of freedom.
A day when I looked back
and saw her—
the girl I had become.
Wounded.
Confused.
Exhausted.
Lost.
I mourned her.
She was the one
who protected me
long enough to break away.
And I was ready
to let her rest.
She did her job.
And now,
I carry her memory
with gratitude.
She taught me the final lesson:
Never give up your compassion.
Never stop casting light
for others
to find their way.
But don’t let it cost you everything.
You can be loving
and still walk away.
You don’t deserve to be emptied.
And you can’t afford to disappear.
J.N. Rose 