My Truth…

I don’t want peace that costs me my voice.
I want healthy conflict.

Not the kind that explodes.
The kind that trembles —
and stays.

When I was a child, conflict meant danger.
Not loud voices.
Danger.

It meant shut down.
Eyes open. Heart gone.
Learn the weather of the room faster than your own feelings.
Disappear before you’re made to.

So when we fought,
my body remembered before my mind did.

You saw distance.
I felt survival.

Facts:
We disagreed.
Voices shifted.
Energy changed.

Story in my head:
I’m about to be left.
I did something wrong.
I am too much again.

Under that —
hurt.
Fear.
Shame that arrived before language.

I wasn’t trying to punish you with silence.
Silence was the only skill I ever mastered.

Silence always has a message.
Mine was:
I’m drowning.
Please don’t mistake this for not caring.

You said,
“I don’t want you to feel that way.”
And I believe you.
In good faith.

But intention and impact are different planets.
And sometimes I live on impact.

I never knew how
to say,
“I’m panicking but I love you.”
“I need a break but I’m not leaving.”
“Slow down. My nervous system thinks we’re dying.”

Instead I froze.
And freezing can look like indifference
if you don’t know the backstory.

No self-pity.
Just ownership.

I didn’t know how to stay.
I didn’t know healthy conflict was a skill you practice
instead of a threat you survive.

My autism.
My ADHD.
My CPTSD.
Wires crossed and lit up like a circuit board in a storm.

Yours — sometimes gone quiet.
Disconnected.
Protecting yourself in your own way.

Two nervous systems trying to love each other
without a shared map.

I want to move from stuck
to secure.

I want us to build the container
before the spill.

I want to remember the butterflies —
not just the rush,
but the safety that made them possible.

I started life solo.
Attachment was something I studied, not something I trusted.
Things change.
People grow.
We revisit.

What if we talked about
what we wish would happen
instead of arguing about what did?

What if “taking a break” meant
I care enough to come back regulated?

What if repair was the point?

What if healthy conflict meant
we don’t shame each other for having unmet needs —
we help each other name them?

Love is still there.
Under the panic.
Under the shutdown.
Under the shame.

I don’t want to win.
I want us.

Can two people who learned to survive alone
learn how to stay
and fight
without losing each other?

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