Each morning, I wake up without knowing which version of myself I will meet.

Sometimes I wake up certain that I am going to make meaningful, positive changes in the world. I begin the day with ambition burning in my gut. Then I fill my coffee cup, step outside, and become painfully aware of how visible I feel—watched and judged by people who have no idea what it is like to live inside my mind.

I was recently diagnosed with mental-health conditions similar to those my brother experienced before his death. Since then, I have questioned nearly every part of myself: my memories, my instincts, my intentions, and even the way I understand my own life.

I moved to a new town after leaving a harmful relationship with a man who was not entirely bad. I hoped I could reinvent myself and become a healthier version of who I had been. In many ways, I have. But I still carry a voice that has followed me for as long as I can remember:

“You’re a liar. You’re fake. You ruin everything. You would be better off dead than trying to change anyone’s world.”

After my mother died, I learned more about why I had spent my life feeling as though I never should have been born. That belief became a core wound—one I learned to survive with, but never truly healed. I want to heal it now. The difficulty is that the people I love sometimes press directly against that wound without realizing how much pain they are adding.

Recently, I removed several stories submitted by a woman I once believed was my friend. I could no longer determine what was true, what had been exaggerated, or whether she had been trying to gain access to me and my closest friend. I had hoped she would become a positive part of my life. Instead, her presence became connected in my mind to one of the most frightening experiences I have ever had.

During that period, I experienced a psychotic break after consuming substances I believed were ordinary cannabis products. I still do not know exactly what I consumed or how it affected me. I have suspicions, but I cannot prove them. What I do know is that I became seriously unwell, lost parts of my memory, and woke up in an emergency room.

More than two months later, this woman continued contacting my closest friend and presenting herself as someone trying to help him. That left me questioning what “help” really means.

Is it help when someone repeats resources he has already been given? Is it help when support overlooks the fact that male survivors often struggle to find services designed for them?

My friend has lived through abuse, addiction, trauma, and instability. I want him to find resources that recognize him as a full human being—not just as a man expected to endure everything silently.

Why do men so often have to fight harder to be believed as victims of domestic violence, family abuse, or life circumstances beyond their control?

The two of us have also spent too much time triggering each other’s trauma responses. In the community where we live, those reactions have sometimes made us appear unlike the people we believe ourselves to be.

I have to work every day to remain grounded. Some days I am not sure how successful I am. I know that my prescribed medication helps me feel more like myself. When I miss a dose, my thoughts move faster than my ability to filter them, and words come out before I understand how deeply they may hurt someone.

I have spent most of my life masking. I do not know when it began. I only know that around this particular person, the mask falls. My walls come down, and he sees the genuine version of me—the loving parts, the frightened parts, the impulsive parts, and the parts still learning not to hurt myself or others when I am overwhelmed.

I wish I could be everything to everyone.

I wish I could protect every person I love.

I wish I could be the healthiest version of myself during every moment I am alive.

I was told that my mother attempted to end her pregnancy with me after it was already too far along. That knowledge has shaped the way I understand my existence. Sometimes I wonder whether I was never supposed to survive. Other times, I wonder whether I survived because I was meant to make waves.

Maybe someone, somewhere, needs to read something I write. Maybe my words will help one person see their life differently. Maybe that person will go on to change something larger than either of us.

Whatever the reason, I am still alive.

I have survived multiple near-death experiences, heartbreak I did not think I could endure, profound disappointment in myself, and periods when continuing felt impossible.

Still, I keep trying.

My therapist calls me optimistic. She tells me my resilience is inspiring. Sometimes I wish I could stop fighting. But then I think about my family, my legacy, and the four lives I carried inside my body.

What would it mean to them if I gave up?

What would it mean to me?

I want to live in a world where equal opportunity is more than something people claim exists. I want people struggling with addiction to have a path toward recovery that does not require them to destroy every connection to their past. I want survivors to be able to stand on their own feet without constantly fighting someone in court, online, in their homes, or inside their own minds.

I also hope that one day my art will support a life I can currently only imagine.

I dream of traveling the world, meeting people, hearing their stories, and writing about what I learn. At first, I planned to publish stories exactly as people submitted them. My first experience taught me that doing so could create serious problems. I cannot always confirm whether another person’s account is complete, accurate, safe, or ready to be made public.

So I am changing the format.

People may still send me their stories. I will read them, sit with them, and—when appropriate—write a reflection from my own point of view.

Think of it as a modern version of an advice column, except I will not pretend to know what another person should do. I can only explain what I might do in their position, what I notice in their story, and what strength it may have taken for them to survive it.

Everyone deserves a safe place to speak.

Everyone deserves to know someone is listening.

There will be stories I cannot publish. I will not share admissions that could endanger someone, identify a victim, glorify harm, or expose private information. I will focus on stories that may help people feel less alone or encourage the world to become more compassionate.

I have standards, even though I do not always meet them perfectly.

I fail myself. I make mistakes. I sometimes hurt myself and other people while trying to manage pain I do not yet fully understand. But I also care deeply, and when someone tells me they are in danger, my instinct is to act.

A few months ago, while I was already struggling with housing insecurity, stress, and responsibilities of my own, two people reached out for help.

The first asked me to contact police because he was staying with people connected to his addiction. I did not know every detail. I only knew he sounded afraid. I called the police, was transferred to the appropriate department, and told them he could come to my home.

I knew helping him could place my own housing at risk. I helped anyway because, in that moment, I believed being a safe place mattered more.

The next day, another friend told me she needed to be picked up from a hotel where a man had been hurting her. I did not have reliable transportation, so I paid money I could not afford to have neighbors drive me there.

I did not know which parts of her story could be verified. I did not know the full nature of the relationship. I knew only that she said she was in danger.

I did not interrogate either person before helping.

I acted.

The following week, after sharing a cannabis vape with that woman, I experienced the psychotic break. I cannot say with certainty what caused it. I only know the timing, what I consumed, and what happened afterward.

Around that same period, my other friend gave me a statue of Isis—an image I had searched for over more than twenty years. I have always used gods and goddesses as symbolic models for qualities I want to embody. Isis represents protection, devotion, healing, endurance, and the ability to rebuild after devastation.

During the break, I reportedly declared, “I am Isis.”

I do not believe I am literally a goddess. What I meant—beneath the illness, confusion, and altered state—was that I identify with what she represents. I want to become someone who protects, restores, and transforms pain into meaning.

The woman gave me an amethyst geode. After my hospitalization and the fallout that followed, she took it back and called me fake. That moment ended the friendship for me.

The loss was not truly about a crystal.

It was about what the gift had represented: gratitude, trust, and the belief that I had helped someone. When it was taken back, it felt as though the meaning had been withdrawn too.

Before this experience, I had never intentionally used drugs other than cannabis or alcohol. I had never experienced anything like that altered state. It terrified me.

I remember very little of the psychotic break. My memories are fragmented and surreal. I remember kissing my friend. I remember him seeming to become my father, then turning to dust. After that, I remember waking in an emergency room.

Everything else had to be reconstructed from the accounts of people who were there.

Some people told me things that others later disputed. I was told I had done things that another witness said had not happened. The more versions I heard, the clearer it became that memory—even the memory of a witness—is imperfect.

That realization is part of why I continue to write.

A storyteller’s responsibility is not merely to repeat the first version of an event. It is to listen carefully, compare accounts, acknowledge uncertainty, research what can be researched, and resist turning assumptions into facts.

I may not always know the complete truth.

But I will keep searching for it.

I will keep listening.

I will keep creating.

And, despite every voice that tells me otherwise, I will keep trying.