AI Website GeneratorI am currently 100% determined at 70% compiled in my head and at 20% articulated to words. When describing some of these feelings or actions, it can cause a lot of conflict with people and that is the main reason for the delay.
Some of the chapters I will be polling on X is:
"Wrestling the Rhythm"
"Enough is Enough: A Breaking Point"
"Steps I Did Choose"
In this chapter, I contemplate the difficulty of proceeding under "grace," for I didn’t die twice, though I tried, and what came next wasn’t a crown of victory but a stumble into a life I had to figure out all over again.
Grace, to me, isn’t about being spared; it’s about wrestling with why I get to keep dancing when I didn’t choreograph the steps—and why others have not received the same latitude to continue their dance, their steps reaching an end I can’t fathom.
Maybe I’m not experiencing "grace" at all, but a task: to describe this phenomenon of surviving the expected. May wisdom guide me on the path of insight to understand and phrase this delicate balance of life and death brings
In this Chapter the narrative pivots to a moment of radical self-assertion—a rejection of mainstream psychiatry’s hollow promises and a reclaiming of survival as a personal fight, not a bestowed grace.
After cycling through four psychologists and three psychiatrists, the churn of appointments yielded no relief, only a deeper entrenchment in unrelenting thought patterns. Alone, the struggle persisted: medications dulled the emotions but left the mind’s relentless chatter untouched, amplifying the very thoughts that cut deepest—sometimes so loud they mimicked voices.
Session after session fueled the mental noise, each expert opinion sparking endless internal debates that resolved nothing, like pouring gasoline on a smoldering fire. The drugs numbed feeling but sharpened observation, trapping you in a zombie-like haze—sleeping tablets to escape, waking only to drift through minutes that stretched like hours, all under the dismissive label of "illness" with hollow assurances of "tomorrow will be better."
Sleep became a desperate refuge, a fleeting reprieve from a life you didn’t want, leading to a fleeting hope in "sleep therapy"—a fantasy of being sedated and left to rest, only to find it harsher than an army boot camp.
Then it happened: a breaking point, a refusal to let psychiatry define the dance any longer, and the first step toward survival on your own terms.
In this Chapter I slam into a truth that’s tough to swallow: "It was my fault." Years of crumbling, giving up when work got rough, breaking rules, lying and stealing to get by, it was not survival, just me digging a deeper hole.
A mentor once told me, "You can never bend reality." The mess you make doesn’t let you outrun it. It’s in your head, gnawing at you, even if no one else calls you out. If you’re reading this, feeling like it’s all gone too far, I’ve been there, realizing I caused my own wreckage nearly broke me.
But here’s the part that can shift things: forgiving yourself.
It’s not easy, and it doesn’t erase the past, but it’s a crack of light when you think it’s over. Nothing you’ve done is too far gone if you can let mercy in—I had to learn that the hard way. That’s the first step to standing up again, not as some hero, but as someone who’s still here, and you can be too.
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