Was I Wrong?
There are two years in my life that feel like open wounds: 2022 and 2025.
2022 broke me in ways I didn’t think were survivable.
My mom passed away. My depression deepened into something darker. I later learned I was being cheated on by the man I trusted. Work felt unbearable. Every part of my life felt like it was collapsing at once. I truly believed that was the lowest point I could reach.
But 2025 proved me wrong.
That year, I was harassed and emotionally tormented by someone who kept feeding me rumors about my husband’s alleged infidelity. My body weakened. I was dismissed and taken for granted at home. Eventually, I discovered I needed major surgery — and nearly lost my life to sepsis.
I tried to heal quietly.
I carried the pain alone.
I didn’t tell my husband because I already felt unheard.
I didn’t tell my family because I didn’t want to be a burden.
I kept everything inside — until the weight became unbearable.
I reached a point where I felt spiritually empty, mentally exhausted, emotionally numb, and convinced my life had no purpose. I tried to keep going. I tried to fight. But my mind became a battlefield, and dark thoughts began whispering an “easy way out.”
Eventually, I found myself in the hospital, speaking to the mental health crisis team. Since then, I’ve been trying — therapy, medication, check-ins — even when progress feels slow and uncertain.
Recently, I left home because I felt emotionally drained and unsafe in my own thoughts. I needed space to heal. And in that space, I began to feel like myself again — clearer, stronger, more alive.
But when I reached out, I was met with anger. With threats. With blame.
And now I’m left with this question echoing in my mind:
Was I wrong for choosing to survive?
Was I wrong for choosing to breathe?
Was I wrong for choosing to heal?
I may have been bent by the storm, but I refuse to be defined by the wreckage.