Just this morning, I was thinking about how disconnected I’ve felt from art lately—how rare it is to find something that truly makes me feel. Maybe it’s the sheer volume of content we consume, numbing us little by little.
Then I read this. Goosebumps. I practically scrambled to find the full post, and I was not disappointed.
SPOILERS AHEAD
The raw honesty, the weight of every word—it’s devastating and powerful in equal measure. The cyclical nature of abuse, the quiet suffocation of captivity, the slow erosion of self, all laid bare with unflinching prose.
By the end, there’s defiance. There’s freedom. There’s never again.
Thank you for sharing something so harrowing, so beautifully written, and so deeply human.
Art has a way of finding its people.
Just this morning, I was thinking about how disconnected I’ve felt from art lately—how rare it is to find something that truly makes me feel. Maybe it’s the sheer volume of content we consume, numbing us little by little.
Then I read this. Goosebumps. I practically scrambled to find the full post, and I was not disappointed.
SPOILERS AHEAD
The raw honesty, the weight of every word—it’s devastating and powerful in equal measure. The cyclical nature of abuse, the quiet suffocation of captivity, the slow erosion of self, all laid bare with unflinching prose.
By the end, there’s defiance. There’s freedom. There’s never again.
Thank you for sharing something so harrowing, so beautifully written, and so deeply human.
This
It's one of 3 stories about me, actually. The others are "Writing is a funny thing" and "Nocturnus”.