For most of my life, something swallowed my thoughts before they ever landed. I didn't know what to call it. I didn’t even know it was there. But I felt it — like a gravity well inside me, always pulling, always distorting.

I didn’t have words for it. That was part of its design. It lived in silence and confusion. It had no face, no sound, no clear memory I could point to and say, this is when it started. It just was. It hovered, invisible but undeniable, feeding off every attempt I made to think clearly, feel honestly, or remember cleanly.

When I had a thought, it was like I had to throw it into the right basket — some internal filing system that I assumed everyone else had mastered. A place where thoughts made sense, where feelings went where they belonged. But for me? I couldn’t even see the baskets. I didn’t know they were there. I just kept tossing, blindly, hoping something would stick.

Nothing ever did.

The black hole sucked in every toss. It devoured clarity. It erased meaning. It warped the trajectory of every thought I tried to understand. And when I missed the invisible target — which was almost always — it didn’t just stay quiet.

It threw things back.

It didn’t return my thoughts with insight. It hurled them at me as frustration — that sharp, acidic kind of anger that builds up when you keep trying and failing and don’t even know why. When every mental effort ends in static. When you can feel your mind trying to organize the chaos and coming up short.

That frustration grew into a kind of low-grade rage. Not always explosive, but ever-present. A quiet fury that hummed beneath the surface of everything. I was angry, but I didn’t know what at. Myself? The world? My past? I didn’t have the map, so I blamed the driver — me.

What I didn’t understand was this: The baskets were real. The structure was real. I just had no access to it — because the black hole, this unnamed trauma-space inside me, was positioned between me and everything I needed to heal. I couldn’t sort, I couldn’t file, I couldn’t feel in a way that made sense. So every attempt at insight became a source of shame.

I thought I was broken. I thought I was bad at life. But the truth is, I was just navigating blind.

And then, somehow, I saw it. I named the black hole. I called it what it was: emotional neglect, deep invalidation, unspoken grief. I stopped calling it my personality and started calling it my history. That naming — that moment of turning and seeing it clearly — was the beginning of everything.

Because when you name the thing, it loses its power.

And when I did that, something in me shifted. The black hole stopped pulling. The baskets, suddenly, were visible. Not all at once — but enough to see that they’d been there all along, waiting. I started tossing thoughts again, but this time they landed. They went somewhere. They stuck. And the sense of relief was like oxygen after a lifetime of drowning in air.

The field in my mind opened up. Where the black hole once loomed, there’s now space. A clean, open field. Quiet. Gentle. Untouched.

And that quiet is not scary anymore.

It’s not empty. It’s mine.

But the field also revealed something else: I have to learn how to live without the interference. I have to retrain my instincts. I spent so long dodging gravity that I now overcorrect, waiting for distortion that no longer comes. But this is a good problem. This is the kind of relearning that heals.

I’m learning to trust the straight toss. To accept that the basket will catch it. To believe that my thoughts have value and that they can land exactly where they were meant to.

And I’m letting go of the anger — not by pushing it down, but by understanding where it came from. It was never about the world. It was about the invisible architecture that trauma dismantled, and the silent chaos that followed.

The frustration wasn’t weakness. It was proof of effort. It was the noise made by someone trying to function without a map, without light, without access to their own emotional coordinates.

And now, the light is on.

The baskets are real. The field is wide. The black hole has a name — and that means it no longer defines me.

I define me.