To whoever is ready to read this:
I have sat here for quite some time, reflecting on my behaviors.
I have said many words from an unclear mental and emotional space.
And after nearly every episode, I wrestled with how—if at all—to address the damage in a way that was genuine and honest.
This is not a plea for forgiveness. It’s not a justification. It’s 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: 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 deeply ingrained pattern. And it’s one that has cost me…almost everything.
A New Platform for Truth
I recently created this space online—my website and blog. I revised it, removed my name, and stripped away what no longer felt aligned. I created this platform to tell the truth of my experience 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 space. 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.
The Long Road of Trying
I’ve tried everything. Faith. Therapy. Education. Self-help. Adulting.
I’ve pursued deep Christianity and that “spiritual relationship” thing since my teens and early adulthood. I’ve tried to “get right” with God, tried to “do the things” if effort to get better. Not just because of the whole heaven/hell thing, but because I really wanted to do right for myself and for others.
Still… I’ve 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 Something Has Shifted
Lately—especially over the past year—something inside me has shifted.
This isn’t a redemption arc or a Christian testimony tied up in 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 may not disappoint you or others in someway 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. There’s evidence.
Evidence of Change
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A shifting mindset
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Owning my past wrongs
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Holding myself accountable, as best I can
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Quitting smoking (no nicotine or substitutes since November)
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Staying consistent with medication
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Losing significant weight
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Slowly reclaiming my home through housework and cleaning, organization
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Reconnecting with my body and cooking healthier meals
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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 Battle Inside My Head
The thoughts never stopped. Racing, intrusive, and loud.
Some call it trauma. Others call it demons. Whatever it is—it hijacked my life.
Mental loops. Shame spirals. Flashbacks on repeat.
Thoughts like:
What’s wrong with you? Why did you say that? Why didn’t you just… stop?
I couldn’t function. My relationships collapsed. My 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 any of this. At the end of the day, mental illness or symptoms of such, can result from multiple factors, that are not fully understood. There are those that have certain predispositions. I had one strong inborn trait, strong emotional sensitivity from a young age. The rest who knows? Trauma, a handful of mistakes, bad luck? I don’t know.
Not everyone’s mental illness is trauma-based, but I feel mine does include some components.
Where I’m Finding Breakthrough
The 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 ruble” 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 messages. Sometimes both.
There’s more I could say about financial struggles and other areas where I failed, but that’s another letter.
Grief, Regret, and Unfinished Business
There’s so much I could write—so many layers 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.
When Loss Hits Different
Grief is strange.
Losing someone to death is not unlike the grief of 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 the 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.
In Closing
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.
Know this:
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 any 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 at right here,
I write under the name The Wounded Healer.
This is an edited down version of a letter I intend to send physical copies to the family and friends involved this week.
From whoever this version of who I am 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 a friend, then with the others like me: the weirdos, oddballs, childless, or other lost out there feeling 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—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 my anger, hurt, trauma, or selfish behavior.
Be kind.
And find someone to show love and compassion to today.
Sometimes we have to start with ourselves. Primarily, it is quite beneficial if we start with ourselves.
Peace,
The Wounder Healer of DaringToMend.com