put a million miles on it

I don’t want to live scared, coerced into thinking a certain way, or acting a certain way. Learning to grow up alone meant learning to make my own decisions and living with the consequences of those decisions.

Relationships are a type of hell for me. I don’t like when people place their expectations on me. I don’t like feeling like I have to change my demeanor, my natural way of being to appease someone. There is no freedom there. I’m not for it.

People will make you feel small to heighten their glory. But what the fuck are you trying to prove now? I have always held a certain disdain for micromanagers. I don’t need to be controlled, and although I’ve asked for guidance, it’s guidance that I need.

I read somewhere that if you let people control your direction, you’ll never get to where you want to go. You’ll end up where they want you to go.

It’s dawning on me, that a mental health crisis can be averted simply by avoiding preoccupation with the feelings of other people. In my car, I drive carefully, careful not to drive too far or cover too much space. We care not to put too many miles on the car, on the legs, on the shoes. I want the worn-out sneakers. I want the car with the million miles on it. I want to say that I enjoyed every second of it. If you don’t see my vision, then that’s fine. I don’t expect you to see eye to eye with me on everything. But I am growing less patient with expecting people to meet me where I am. If you’re not here with me, don’t expect me to make my decisions considering you.

This isn’t war. It’s more emancipation.

Don’t ever forget the moment you began to doubt,

transitioning from fitting in to standing out.