They call us monsters.
Yeah—
monsters.
People who manipulate, people who destroy,
people who pull others apart with our bare hands.
But listen.
Really listen.
The tearing didn't start outside of us.
It started inside.
It started
when the people meant to love us
lit the first match
and left.
We are not made of cruelty.
We are made of scar tissue.
We are made of nervous systems stretched too tight
hearts wired to alarms
that go off
for every small thing.
One text.
One tone.
One delay in "good morning."
And no—we can't just "snap out of it."
We can't just flip a switch and become "normal."
We wish we could.
God, we wish.
Instead, we walk through mud
every. single. day.
Sometimes it's up to our knees.
Sometimes up to our chest.
Sometimes it's over our head
and we're just trying
to breathe.
We didn't ask for this.
We didn't choose a brain
that turns love into survival
and comfort into threat.
They say get help.
But the system?
The system is a collapsing building
and we are trapped in the rubble.
Psychiatrists turn away—
"too complex."
Therapists label us—
"too much."
Insurance slams the door
before we even knock.
Tell me—
how do we heal
in a world that keeps proving
it doesn't want to help us?
So we sit with it.
Replay it.
We watch the wildfire of our emotions
burn the people we love
and even when we say "I'm sorry"
(with everything in us)
it doesn't undo the flames.
We feel everything.
Not a little.
Not halfway.
Everything.
Happiness—blazing.
Love—blazing.
Fear—blazing.
And sadness…
sadness is being skinned alive
in slow motion.
People say "I understand."
But no—
you don't.
You really don't.
This is why some of us don't make it.
Because the emotional pain becomes physical.
Because the fear of feeling like that again
makes living see-through,
makes breathing feel like punishment.
There are days our bodies say no.
We cannot move.
We cannot rise.
Depression slides in like a snake,
cold hand over our mouth—
and by the time we notice,
we're already sinking.
And sometimes
we stay there.
Not because we've given up—
but because even begging for help
takes more strength
than we have left.
Until…
someone reaches out.
Someone patient.
Someone brave.
Someone who says "I see you"
and actually means it.
And slowly—
slowly—
we crawl back toward the light.
But here's the truth:
we never come back the same.
We always carry the fear.
The fear that tomorrow
could break us again.
Maybe that fear makes us softer.
Maybe it makes us stronger.
Maybe both.
But hear me when I say this—
we are not monsters.
We are survivors
of wars no one else can see.
Still breathing.
Still fighting.
Still hoping that one day
this world—and its broken system—
will finally learn
to hold us
the way we always deserved.