July 4th isn’t about freedom for everyone.*tw*
For me, it’s a reminder of what it means to survive in a world that keeps trying to set you on fire.
While the world lights up with fireworks, waving flags and celebrating “freedom,” I’m trapped in memories I didn’t choose to carry. Every firework that cracks the sky doesn’t sound like celebration to me—it sounds like the echo of what was stolen.
The flashbacks hit like waves, dragging me back to that beach—the sand cold and scratching against my skin. The sky lit up just like it will tonight, except I wasn’t watching the fireworks. I was staring up at a face I’ll never forget, feeling the weight of someone who crushed me—not just physically, but emotionally, mentally, spiritually. He took pieces of me I’m still trying to recover.
He walked away free. I didn’t.
This time of year isn’t about barbecues or parades. It’s about surviving. It’s about trying to stay grounded when my body is screaming danger and my mind is replaying things I’ve spent years trying to bury. I don’t need red, white, and blue. I need silence. I need safety. I need to be allowed to grieve what was taken from me.
And tonight?
I’ll flinch at every boom.
I’ll curl into myself like I did that night, trying to disappear into the sand, into the dark, into nothing.
I’ll fight to breathe through a panic that feels like drowning with dry lungs.
I’ll brace for the memories that come without warning—the ones that claw their way under my skin.
I’m terrified to sleep.
Terrified to wake up.
Terrified I won’t make it through the night without breaking in half.
And the scariest part?
I don’t even know if I want to.
Sometimes, when the memories won’t stop clawing at me, when it feels like I’m suffocating in my own skin, I just want to feel something else—something I can control. The urge to cut creeps in, whispering that if I make the outside hurt enough, maybe the inside will go quiet. Watching the blood drip feels like watching the pain leak out of me. Like maybe, for just a moment, I’m bleeding out everything he left inside. I know it’s not the answer—but in the thick of it, it feels like the only language my body still understands.
To those who celebrate today with joy—please don’t tell me to “just enjoy the day.” You don’t know the battlefield my body becomes when the fireworks start. You don’t know what that sound means to me.
While the world lights up with fireworks, waving flags and celebrating “freedom,” I’m trapped in memories I didn’t choose to carry. Every firework that cracks the sky doesn’t sound like celebration to me—it sounds like the echo of what was stolen.
The flashbacks hit like waves, dragging me back to that beach—the sand cold and scratching against my skin. The sky lit up just like it will tonight, except I wasn’t watching the fireworks. I was staring up at a face I’ll never forget, feeling the weight of someone who crushed me—not just physically, but emotionally, mentally, spiritually. He took pieces of me I’m still trying to recover.
He walked away free. I didn’t.
This time of year isn’t about barbecues or parades. It’s about surviving. It’s about trying to stay grounded when my body is screaming danger and my mind is replaying things I’ve spent years trying to bury. I don’t need red, white, and blue. I need silence. I need safety. I need to be allowed to grieve what was taken from me.
And tonight?
I’ll flinch at every boom.
I’ll curl into myself like I did that night, trying to disappear into the sand, into the dark, into nothing.
I’ll fight to breathe through a panic that feels like drowning with dry lungs.
I’ll brace for the memories that come without warning—the ones that claw their way under my skin.
I’m terrified to sleep.
Terrified to wake up.
Terrified I won’t make it through the night without breaking in half.
And the scariest part?
I don’t even know if I want to.
Sometimes, when the memories won’t stop clawing at me, when it feels like I’m suffocating in my own skin, I just want to feel something else—something I can control. The urge to cut creeps in, whispering that if I make the outside hurt enough, maybe the inside will go quiet. Watching the blood drip feels like watching the pain leak out of me. Like maybe, for just a moment, I’m bleeding out everything he left inside. I know it’s not the answer—but in the thick of it, it feels like the only language my body still understands.
To those who celebrate today with joy—please don’t tell me to “just enjoy the day.” You don’t know the battlefield my body becomes when the fireworks start. You don’t know what that sound means to me.
