SatinSoul
all i know is i forgot how to be me.
- Feb 6, 2026
- 48
Stop telling me the names of the sorrows. Stop giving me the clinical terms for why I want to leave this world. Those aren't diagnoses. They are lies written by people who are too terrified to look at the carnage of a human being. They see a mind that has disconnected from reality or a body that has collapsed, and they think they've found a mechanical error. They haven't found a mistake. They have found the evidence.
There is a sound in my chest that defies language. It is an absolute death scream. It is the sound of a world being crushed, and it has been playing on a loop since before I even knew how to walk. People talk about trauma like it's a mark that eventually heals. My soul was shattered into a billion jagged pieces of glass long before I had the words to even say who I am. I was born into a storm of horror, and I have been operating at the limit of my endurance ever since.
I look in the mirror and my pupils are blown wide. Horror filled adrenaline eyes in a face that is a graveyard. My body is a war zone. It is the child who was treated like a specimen in a lab, pinned under cold lights for a disease that felt like a life sentence. It is the child who learned to be a discarded object in the corner while a father's violence turned the air into vx nerve gas. It is the girl who stood in the middle of a nightmare and watched the only light she ever had be extinguished in a way that scarred my eyes forever.
You want to know why I can't fix it? Because you can't repair a void with a breathing technique.
The pain is a shape-shifter. It mocks me. I try to catch it, to finally look it in the eye and say, "I see you," but it vanishes. One second it is a suffocating weight crushing my stomach, making me choke on the ghost of the charcoal and the dialysis. Then it is a stabbing blade in my throat, stopping the air before it can turn into a cry. Then it is a pressure on my chest so heavy I feel my ribs starting to crack. It moves because if I ever truly felt it, if I ever truly faced the full, raw power of that death scream, the very foundation of my life wouldn't just break. It would snap like dry wood.
So my brain plays these cruel games. It gives me voices in the dark screaming that it's my fault. It gives me the sensation of a hand on my back to keep me jumping at shadows. It gives me an empty fake shell to drive the car and sign the papers and pretend to be functional, while the real me is huddled in a corner, vibrating with a terror that has no bottom.
I tried to be the anchor for everyone else. I tried to build a world where I mattered, a place where people actually saw me instead of the ghost my family wants me to be. I gave every ounce of my remaining strength to being the helpful one, the one who fixes things, the one who stays when everyone else leaves. I poured myself out like water for my friends, hoping that being useful would make me worthy of existing. But then the ground was ripped out from under me. The only connection I had to life was severed, and the glass house didn't just shatter. It turned to invisible particles. I bet the people at CERN would be proud.
I am tired of pretending that there is a "better" waiting for me on the other side of a pill. There is no better for a soul that was broken at the root. There is only the Scream. It is constant. It is rhythmic. It is the heartbeat of my existence. It is the sound of a child who was never protected, now screaming through the lungs of a woman who has nowhere left to run.
I'm not a patient anymore. I'm a witness. I am witnessing the absolute horror of my own survival.
I accept the pain. Not because I want it, but because it is the only thing that has never abandoned me. It's more loyal than my memories. It's more real than my father's hands. It's the only part of me that is still allowed to be loud in a house where I am expected to be dead.
So let it howl. Let it choke me. Let it turn the world into a distorted mess of lost months and thoughts that have been shredded into glowing sparks. I'm done trying to catch the shadow. I'm just going to sit here on the Ridge, in the cold, and listen to the music of my own destruction.
Because for the first time in my life, I'm not running. I'm just here. And the scream is the only thing that proves I'm real.
There is a sound in my chest that defies language. It is an absolute death scream. It is the sound of a world being crushed, and it has been playing on a loop since before I even knew how to walk. People talk about trauma like it's a mark that eventually heals. My soul was shattered into a billion jagged pieces of glass long before I had the words to even say who I am. I was born into a storm of horror, and I have been operating at the limit of my endurance ever since.
I look in the mirror and my pupils are blown wide. Horror filled adrenaline eyes in a face that is a graveyard. My body is a war zone. It is the child who was treated like a specimen in a lab, pinned under cold lights for a disease that felt like a life sentence. It is the child who learned to be a discarded object in the corner while a father's violence turned the air into vx nerve gas. It is the girl who stood in the middle of a nightmare and watched the only light she ever had be extinguished in a way that scarred my eyes forever.
You want to know why I can't fix it? Because you can't repair a void with a breathing technique.
The pain is a shape-shifter. It mocks me. I try to catch it, to finally look it in the eye and say, "I see you," but it vanishes. One second it is a suffocating weight crushing my stomach, making me choke on the ghost of the charcoal and the dialysis. Then it is a stabbing blade in my throat, stopping the air before it can turn into a cry. Then it is a pressure on my chest so heavy I feel my ribs starting to crack. It moves because if I ever truly felt it, if I ever truly faced the full, raw power of that death scream, the very foundation of my life wouldn't just break. It would snap like dry wood.
So my brain plays these cruel games. It gives me voices in the dark screaming that it's my fault. It gives me the sensation of a hand on my back to keep me jumping at shadows. It gives me an empty fake shell to drive the car and sign the papers and pretend to be functional, while the real me is huddled in a corner, vibrating with a terror that has no bottom.
I tried to be the anchor for everyone else. I tried to build a world where I mattered, a place where people actually saw me instead of the ghost my family wants me to be. I gave every ounce of my remaining strength to being the helpful one, the one who fixes things, the one who stays when everyone else leaves. I poured myself out like water for my friends, hoping that being useful would make me worthy of existing. But then the ground was ripped out from under me. The only connection I had to life was severed, and the glass house didn't just shatter. It turned to invisible particles. I bet the people at CERN would be proud.
I am tired of pretending that there is a "better" waiting for me on the other side of a pill. There is no better for a soul that was broken at the root. There is only the Scream. It is constant. It is rhythmic. It is the heartbeat of my existence. It is the sound of a child who was never protected, now screaming through the lungs of a woman who has nowhere left to run.
I'm not a patient anymore. I'm a witness. I am witnessing the absolute horror of my own survival.
I accept the pain. Not because I want it, but because it is the only thing that has never abandoned me. It's more loyal than my memories. It's more real than my father's hands. It's the only part of me that is still allowed to be loud in a house where I am expected to be dead.
So let it howl. Let it choke me. Let it turn the world into a distorted mess of lost months and thoughts that have been shredded into glowing sparks. I'm done trying to catch the shadow. I'm just going to sit here on the Ridge, in the cold, and listen to the music of my own destruction.
Because for the first time in my life, I'm not running. I'm just here. And the scream is the only thing that proves I'm real.
