09/02/2026
Not to be a bitch, but if you gossiped about how I handled the worst experience of my life instead of reaching out, you're a loser in my story.
Let that sit for a second. Because while I was drowning, trying to survive something that cracked me open in ways you’ll never understand, you were busy whispering my pain into rooms I wasn’t even in. You turned my healing into entertainment, my breakdown into a topic, my silence into something to dissect instead of something to respect.
You didn’t ask if I was okay.
You didn’t offer a hand, a text, a moment of humanity.
You chose commentary over compassion.
And that tells me everything I need to know.
I don’t regret how I handled what nearly destroyed me. I did the best I could with the tools I had while carrying a weight that would’ve crushed most people. Healing isn’t pretty, it isn’t linear, and it doesn’t exist for public approval. If my survival made you uncomfortable, that’s not my shame to carry.
So yes, in my story, you don’t get depth, or grace, or a redemption arc. You get a footnote at best. Because real ones reach out. Real ones check in. Real ones don’t weaponize someone’s pain to feel important.
And I’m done explaining myself to people who never cared enough to understand.
