Trading Energy
It’s easy to get wrapped up in other people’s shit,
to let them drain you
like a vampire sinking its fangs in,
emptying whatever space you had left
without ever asking if you needed it to live.
Sometimes empathy becomes a magnet
for other people’s emotional chaos.
They want.
They spiral.
They vent.
And we listen.
And listen.
Feeling everything—
often before we are ready
to feel ourselves.
Within seconds we are underwater.
An emotional tsunami—
their emotions, then ours, then theirs again,
back and forth
until we can’t tell
what belongs to who.
We forget to come up for air.
Forget how to breathe,
how to detach,
how to swim instead of sink,
how to regulate instead of disappear.
We stay under
until the body demands oxygen.
Sometimes that takes minutes.
Sometimes days.
Sometimes years.
Sometimes decades.
Sometimes never.
So many of us were made into caregivers,
protectors,
containers—
by family, by circumstance, by survival.
We learned early
that love meant holding everything,
that saying yes kept us safe,
that collapse could wait.
Until it couldn’t.
Until the chest tightens.
Until the rage shows up—not cruel, not violent—
but precise.
Sharp.
A signal flare from the nervous system saying:
this is too much.
That’s the moment recovery actually starts.
Not with softness,
but with restraint.
With the hand on the edge of the pool.
With the pause before jumping in.
With the question no one taught us to ask:
Do I have the capacity for this
right now?
Sometimes the answer is no.
And no is not abandonment.
No is oxygen.
No, no, no—
I will not.
I cannot.
I cannot sit with this
until I have learned
how to sit with myself.
Recovery is not a straight line.
It is the push and pull
between wanting to help
and refusing to disappear.
Between old reflex
and new boundary.
Between love
and self-erasure.
I don’t always have the space.
I don’t always have the air.
And that is not a failure.
But sometimes—
with the right people,
the ones who notice when I’m holding my breath,
the ones who stay when I take the mask off—
I can give.
Not endlessly.
Not at my own expense.
But in rhythm.
In reciprocity.
I am learning to save my oxygen
for those who return it.
To offer space
only where space is shared.
And that—
finally—
is what it means
to come up for air.
#MightyPoets #Depression #PTSD #Anxiety #Grief #NarcissisticPersonalityDisorder #MentalHealth #SubstanceUseDisorders




