Sometimes The Kindest Thing We Can Do Is Allow Someone to Self Destruct

What if our obsession with saving others is the real sickness?

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Author’s Note: The well-meaning vultures circle when they smell blood in the water. They’re coming for me with their pamphlets and their prayers, their 12 steps and their higher powers. But what if, after 22 years of this dance, I’ve earned the right to say: enough? This isn’t meant to inspire. It’s meant to force you to look at what you’ve been too afraid to see.

I’m bleeding out and nobody fucking sees it.

Or worse — they see it and think they know how to stitch me back together.

Depression leads to drugs; drugs deepen depression. I know this. I fucking KNOW this. I’m not some idiot who needs it spelled out. I have a PhD in self-destruction, 22 years of field research, enough data points to plot the exact trajectory of my inevitable collapse. Still, every morning I wake up and do the same shit. I don’t need some therapist with their clinical diagnoses and textbook solutions explaining what’s happening. I don’t need your sad eyes and hopeful pamphlets. I live inside this nightmare. I built the walls myself. I’ve hung fucking artwork on them.