Notes from a Time Traveller by Elke Stevens

Coming to terms with my own codependency and addiction feels like pulling a splinter from under my nail. I had forgotten how painful it was, how numb I had become to the constant ache. But now, as I start to pull it out, every memory, every feeling, and every emotion trapped in that tiny sliver is magnified a hundredfold. Each thread of pain, every whisper of doubt, and suppressed tear is suddenly laid bare, raw and unfiltered. The pain is heavy and intense, and it feels like it will tear me apart before it can put me back together.

I wanted to connect, but I played the victim, drowning in a sea of my own making. I asked for help, but greed took root, twisting my desires like the smoke of a candle burning too quickly, leaving behind only darkness. I cried, not out of love, but because of my own selfish desires, aching for more than I deserved, demanding more than anyone could ever give. I needed someone, but that wasn’t enough for me. I wanted them to need me too. I wanted to be the moon that pulled the tides of their heart, the anchor that held them steady. But I forgot that love cannot be forced or taken; it must be given freely, without expectation.

I became addicted to a cup full of love, even when it was half-empty, even when it was only a drop. I clung to it desperately, like a thirsty traveller in a desert, never satisfied, always craving more. In my poet’s heart, I built castles out of words, bridges out of dreams, believing that if I could just find the right line, the perfect phrase, I could make them see me, make them feel what I felt. But a twisted mind spins twisted stories, and I lost myself in the very tales I told, mistaking my need for love, confusing desperation with passion.

As I began to pull that splinter from my soul, I found myself losing more than I ever thought I could bear: people, dreams, the comfort of familiar pain. Pieces of my past fell away like leaves in autumn, leaving me bare, exposed, vulnerable. The familiar comforts, even the toxic ones, were gone, leaving behind only silence and the echoes of my own regrets. Letting go is terrifying, releasing what I had clung to so desperately felt like free-falling into the unknown.

I guess these are called growing pains for a reason. This agony isn’t just about breaking; it’s about breaking through. Like a seed splitting open to reach the light, like a butterfly emerging from its cocoon, this pain is the crucible of a transformation. The splinter must be pulled; the wound must bleed for healing to begin. In the midst of this pain and loss, there is also hope a quiet,  hope that whispers in the stillness. It tells me that this suffering is temporary, that on the other side of this darkness, there is light. The pain is intense, yes, but it is also short-lived compared to the numbness that came before. This storm is necessary; it clears the path for growth, understanding, and self-forgiveness.

I am learning, slowly, to forgive myself for my greed, for my selfishness, for my desperate need to be needed. I am learning to forgive those who couldn’t fill the spaces in me, who didn’t have the answers I sought, and who were human when I expected more. I hope to be forgiven, not just by others, but by myself. For the dreams I built on shaky ground, for the love I twisted into something unrecognisable. For the stories I told myself to justify my pain, to validate my longing. I am untangling the threads of my own making, trying to find peace in the spaces between want and need, between silence and confession.

These growing pains are proof that I am alive, that I am changing, that I am becoming. Removing the splinter is painful, but it’s the only way to allow healing, to let the flesh knit itself back together. I am learning that love is not a transaction but a gift. That to love is to be open, vulnerable, and raw. To accept the beauty in imperfection, the grace in forgiveness, the strength in letting go.

I wanted to connect, but more than that, I want to learn how to be whole, even without what I thought I needed. To find solace not in someone else’s arms, but in the quiet acceptance of my own. My poet’s heart isn’t just for writing tales of longing, but for embracing this journey toward self-forgiveness and the hope of being forgiven.

So I let the tears fall, I let the anger rise, I let the grief wash over me. I allow myself to feel, to heal, to let go. I trust that this process, as painful as it may be, it is leading me to a place of peace, a place where I can stand in the light of my own truth, free from the shadows of my past.

©️ Elke T.B. Stevens