To whoever is ready to read this,
I’ve sat here for quite some time, reflecting on my behaviors. I’ve said many things from places in my head and heart I didn’t fully understand. After nearly every explosion, I’ve wrestled with how—or even if—I should address the damage. I want my words to be genuine and honest.
This is not a plea for forgiveness. Not a justification. Not an attempt to rewrite anyone’s view of me. Who am I to expect grace or reconciliation? I’m not entitled to mercy.
What I do know is that I’ve slipped. Again and again. Even recently.
When I feel hurt or overwhelmed by what some might call stress—but what in reality feels like drowning—I can turn toxic. It’s a pattern. One that has cost me almost everything.
I recently built this space online—my website, my blog. I revised it. I removed what no longer felt aligned, including my name. I wanted somewhere to tell my truth while protecting the privacy of others.
This space isn’t for everyone. It’s not polished. It’s not religiously correct. It’s messy, raw, and brutally honest. And yet, it’s where I feel called to speak.
“It was the aftermath of my own explosions—the silence after the rants, the ache of disconnection, the shame, the longing. It was the clarity that comes only after you’ve burned it all down and you’re left sitting in the ashes, wondering what’s worth rebuilding.”
That’s where I’ve been. Where I still am.
Everything I’ve posted in recent years—on social media or elsewhere—has come from that place. The lashing out wasn’t about attention. The long paragraphs weren’t for pity. I’ve lived with daily flashbacks looping in my head, barely able to silence them.
Yes, medication has helped. Prayer too. But none of it erased the deeply felt pain and exhaustion.
I’ve tried everything: faith, therapy, education, self-help, adulting.
I pursued deep Christianity and that “spiritual relationship” thing since my teens and early adulthood. I tried to “get right” with God, tried to “do the things” in an effort to get better—not just because of heaven or hell, but because I genuinely wanted to do right by myself and others.
Still, I failed. Repeatedly.
I’ve made irrational decisions, taken foolish detours, and lost relationships I longed to keep. Why did I expect empathy from others for an experience I didn’t even understand myself?
Even simple conversations became impossible. Understanding myself? Harder still.
But lately—especially over the past year—something has shifted.
This isn’t a redemption arc or a testimony tied neatly with a bow.
I’ve studied scripture deeply, spent time in programs and ministries, and walked a long road with Jesus (sometimes away). I do believe in His grace, but I’m not pretending I’m suddenly fixed or holy, or that I won’t disappoint you again tomorrow.
Honestly, if I were to sit in a church pew, I’d probably just cry and cry. And I’m not ready to be close to anyone in that space again, aligned with my personal beliefs or not.
Still… something has changed. And there’s evidence.
Lately, I’ve noticed small but meaningful shifts:
A mindset that’s beginning to change
Owning my past wrongs
Trying to hold myself accountable
Quitting smoking (no nicotine or substitutes since November)
Staying consistent with medication
Losing significant weight
Slowly reclaiming my home—cleaning, organizing, restoring order
Reconnecting with my body and cooking healthier meals
Working through intrusive thoughts
Most people don’t realize how much my mind was suffering. The chaos wasn’t just emotional—it was neurological.
The thoughts never stopped. They were racing, intrusive, loud. Some call it trauma. Others call it demons. Whatever the name, it hijacked my life.
Mental loops. Shame spirals. Flashbacks on repeat.
What’s wrong with you? Why did you say that? Why didn’t you just stop?
I couldn’t function. Relationships collapsed. Focus shattered.
And while professionals may assign labels, I’ve come to understand that most diagnoses are just clusters of symptoms. There’s no single gene that explains all of this. At the end of the day, mental illness—or symptoms of it—can come from many factors.
I know I was born with one strong trait: deep emotional sensitivity. The rest? Trauma, mistakes, bad luck—I can’t fully say. Not everyone’s struggle is trauma-based, but I feel mine includes it.
My breakthroughs haven’t come from therapists or sermons.
They’ve come from solitude.
From writing.
From painting.
From crying on the metaphorical floor and working through the rubble that remained.
My emotions, my choices, and their consequences—they’re mine to sit with.
And mine to heal.
One of my biggest regrets is how I used to lash out and then go silent. Sometimes publicly. Sometimes in private. Sometimes both.
There’s more I could say about financial struggles and other failures, but that’s another letter.
There’s so much you don’t know.
Even if you think you know the story, I’d bet there’s more. The looks. The confusion. The pain that turned physical. The ache of being misunderstood. Of being the one who lit the match.
It’s all real.
And I live with it.
Grief is strange.
Losing someone to death is not unlike losing someone who’s still alive. But when you played a part in the loss, you don’t get to say, “God called them home.” You don’t get closure. You sit with ghosts.
That’s why I don’t mourn like other people.
I mourn the space they once held in my life.
I mourn the person they never saw me become.
I mourn the truth that came too late.
There’s more to share—about my life, my journey, and where I hope to go. But I’ll leave that for another day.
If you’ve made it this far, thank you.
I am not the only one going through something. If my behavior ever made it seem like I thought otherwise, I’m sorry.
There’s no catch to anything I’ve shared. I don’t want pity. I don’t want gifts or dollar bills. If anything in the past made it seem like I had ulterior motives, know that I’ve learned.
If you want to follow my journey, my writing continues here. I write under the name The Wounded Healer.
This is an edited version of a letter I intend to send in physical form to family and friends involved this week.
From whoever this version of me is…
If you need to throw these words away, I only ask—please do so gently.
Despite everything—created by me or others—I still want connection.
If not with the people I once called family or friend, then with the others like me: the weirdos, the oddballs, the childless, or anyone else out there who feels misunderstood.
Once, ChatGPT told me something strange when I was “playing around”:
That my life didn’t look like others because my journey was different—and being different wasn’t just my flaw, it was part of my purpose.
So go. Live your life.
Let go of anything I may have said to you in the heat of anger, hurt, trauma, or selfishness.
Be kind.
Find someone to show love and compassion to today.
And maybe, sometimes, we start with ourselves.
*revised for readability 09/26/25
