Twisting the Knife

I didn’t think a song could get to me. Not after everything. Not after a year and a half of feeling nothing but that dull, constant pressure — the sense that something was unfinished, but I couldn’t name it, couldn’t touch it, couldn’t look directly at it without feeling stupid. I thought I’d moved on. I told myself I had. I tried to live like I had. But the truth is, I needed time to myself because this project did emotional damage. Not the dramatic kind. Not the kind you can point to. Not the kind that leaves visible scars. It was quieter than that. Heavier than that. The kind of damage that sits in your chest and makes everything feel slightly off, even when you can’t explain why. And maybe that’s why I kept pretending I didn’t need closure. Because somewhere along the way, someone told me that wanting it made me narcissistic. Like needing clarity made me selfish. Like wanting to understand my own pain made me the problem. I carried that longer than I should have. Long enough that I stopped asking for anything. Long enough that I convinced myself I didn’t deserve to finish the story I lived through. So I walked away. I told myself I was done. I told myself the project was behind me. I told myself the weight would fade if I ignored it long enough. But it didn’t. It lingered. It followed me. It sat over my head like a storm that never broke. And then Twisting the Knife showed up — a song I didn’t even like at first. It didn’t remind me of death like Freebird does. Freebird is the wrong time for me, always has been, because it drags me back into grief, into endings that don’t give anything back. But Twisting the Knife wasn’t about death. It wasn’t about loss. It wasn’t about finality. It was about truth. It slipped through a crack I didn’t know was still open and hit the exact place where I’d been hurting. It didn’t shame me for wanting closure. It didn’t make me feel dramatic or needy or self‑centered. It didn’t slam a door shut. It opened one. It made me reflect — really reflect — on something I lived through, something I survived, something I carried, and something I never finished. And that reflection didn’t feel selfish. It didn’t feel dramatic. It didn’t feel like I was asking for too much. It felt honest. And honesty — real honesty — is something I haven’t given myself in a long time. The truth is simple: I wasn’t missing closure. I was missing the end. The part I avoided. The part I didn’t know how to write. The part I was ashamed to admit I needed. And now, after all this time, after all the circling and the weight and the quiet ache of something unfinished, I finally understand what closure actually is. It’s not a clean break. It’s not a perfect explanation. It’s not a moment where everything suddenly makes sense. Closure is the moment you stop running. Closure is the moment you tell the truth. Closure is the moment you face the thing you left undone. Closure is the moment you decide you deserve to finish your own story. And that’s what this is. Not a return. Not a reboot. Not a dramatic comeback. Just me, finally stepping into the part I’ve been avoiding for a year and a half. Just me, finally writing the end I needed. Just me, finally letting myself feel hope — not the loud kind, not the triumphant kind, but the quiet kind that comes from finally being honest with myself. For the first time in a long time, I feel lighter. Not fixed. Not healed. Just… lighter. And that’s enough.