the stains between the fridge and the garage wall

I’m scared to journal because it’s hard to keep up with what my mind has to say. I’m usually thinking of seven different things to say next before I’ve even finished the sentence I’m currently writing. It’s like my brain trips on itself. Like there’s a stream of thoughts overlapping, looping, and knotting. There was something I wanted to say just before that last sentence but I’ve already forgotten it. It’s gone. This is what I mean.

When I try to capture my thoughts, they slip through my hands. And I don’t think I’m alone in this. I think we all have moments where we feel so caught up in our heads that it’s almost impossible to make sense of anything. But that’s why I journal. Even if it’s hard. Even if the thoughts swirl, even if they blur together.

I think this impacts the rest of my life. It’s not just about journaling. It’s about aligning myself with who I truly am. And that’s scary. Because who I truly am isn’t perfect. It’s messy. It’s bent. And that’s part of the fear. I know part of me is afraid to embrace that mess. Afraid of what it will mean if I let myself fully be who I am, without all the defenses, without the masks, without all the expectations I’ve built around myself. But part of it also makes sense. When you’ve spent years being hard on yourself, it’s a challenge to just rip off the band-aid. Even if you know it’ll help you heal.

It’s like, I can feel hands around my neck. I mistake them for the Universe but they’re really my own. I know that sounds dramatic, but sometimes it feels like that. I feel like I’m begging for answers that I can’t find anywhere else but within me. But I don’t know within me. If that makes sense. And I’ve been waiting for someone to save me, but what if the only one who can do that is me? I’m learning that the answers are inside of me, but it’s the hardest thing to accept.

I feel stuck in ways I can almost never transcribe. I wonder if this will be one of those times. It’s like a physical feeling, sometimes, a heaviness in my chest, a knot in my stomach, an alert in my shoulders. When I can’t find the words for it; when I can’t put it on paper, and it just stays with me. Lingering.

I think back to a dream I had as a child. It’s a dream I’ve never forgotten. I always remembered the feeling.

Wait — that one sentence I forgot earlier? It came back to me: The point of journaling is to put all those overwhelming thoughts in order so they don’t feel so overwhelming.

I know that it sounded better in my head the first time. But, it’s still the truth. And maybe that’s what’s so hard about it. Journaling isn’t just about getting thoughts down or getting the perfect sentence down. It’s about finding order in chaos. When everything in your head is just a swirling mess of feelings and ideas, it’s hard to know where to start.

Anyways, I think back to my dream: I’m in my grandmother’s old house, in the garage. I’m stuck, wedged between the back of the fridge and the garage wall. The fridge and the wall squish me. I can’t really move and the pressure is suffocating. It’s one of the worst feelings I’ve ever felt. Like Hell. I desperately try to make it through.

Someone told me recently that being stuck feels like Hell. And it makes sense. It feels like you’re trapped, like there’s no way out, no way to breathe, no way to move forward. Just stuck in that place, that moment, that pain.

I’ve remembered this dream my entire life but I don’t remember waking up. I don’t remember the moment I got out of that garage. Sometimes, I wonder if I stayed there. Stuck. Frozen in time. Maybe that’s what it feels like to be stuck; to be caught in a moment that won’t let you go.

And I think that’s why I’m usually so tense. Because there’s this part of me that feels left behind. Put away. So small. So insignificant. Reaching so high, only to be thrown right back down. It feels like a never-ending cycle. And I think I’ve lived most of my life caught in that cycle. Trying to prove something, trying to be enough, trying to earn.

I confess that I am guilty.

Even when I’ve already been covered in my own blood, I still somehow find a way to self-sabotage. To hold myself back. To keep myself in that place of smallness.

There’s an extension of me; my fears, my insecurities, my limiting beliefs. They’re embodied. They consume me. They gnaw at my integrity. They hinder my love. For others. For myself.

And you see, the thing about self-sabotage is that it usually involves more than just the self. It spills over. It affects the people around you. It taints your relationships, your connections, your ability to love and trust. It’s like it becomes a part of everything you touch and it leaves stains. Stains you don’t notice at first. But eventually, you do and it feels impossible to clean up.

This is where that dream comes up again. This is where I’m right back there, in between the fridge and the garage wall. Trapped. I swear, I saw myself then as I am now. But I was four years old.

I’m twenty-three now and I still feel that same sense of being stuck; that same feeling of helplessness.

I stare at the dried-up stains on the walls. The ones that paint my past. The mistakes I made. The hurt I caused. The times I let my pain spill over and hurt others. I used to think these stains were permanent. That they would never go away. But now, I realize, they’re not. Not if I don’t let them be.

I just needed a better stain remover. And I don’t mean perfection. I mean something real. Something messy. Something human. Therapeutic skills. Accountability. Compassion. Love. Respect.

For myself. For others.

For the person I used to be, and the person I’m becoming.

Because it turns out, that’s the only solvent strong enough to scrub through the wreckage I’ve created. It’s slow. It’s frustrating. Some days, it feels like the stains will never come out. But they do. Little by little. I am learning how to be patient with the process.

So, if you’re still in your own version of that garage, if you’re still wedged between the fridge and the wall, if you’re still carrying the stains of who you used to be, don’t turn away. Stay. Stay with the mess. Stay with the grief. Stay with the part of you that still feels four years old and scared. Because they are waiting for you. They are waiting to be picked up and held, not forgotten. You are capable of carrying them now.

You’re older, you’re stronger and you’re still here. Still growing. Still scrubbing away the stains with hands that once caused the mess. Somehow, that’s what makes it beautiful. Because the hands that once destroyed are the same hands that are now learning how to create. How to care, how to hold, and how to finally let go.