Are You Addicted to Suffering and Struggle?

A Letter from One Survivor to Another

Let me take you on a journey through my own cycle of pain, one that might mirror your own.

For over 24 years, I stayed stuck in a cycle of pain. Not only because I didn’t know how to escape, but also because I had no idea that part of me had become used to it. That pain was my comfort zone; I needed it. That is not easy to admit, but maybe that is precisely what you need to hear.

I was addicted to pain and suffering. And maybe you are too.

Consider if your life feels like a constant storm, with relationships that break rather than build you, where chaos feels more familiar than peace.

Then I want you to consider that you might be emotionally addicted to your struggle. In the same way, someone is addicted to alcohol, cigarettes, or drugs.

You don’t choose to be this way on purpose, but you can choose to stop feeding it.

How Does Someone Get Addicted to Suffering?

It might seem strange, but when survival mode becomes your norm, your body adapts to a constant state of fear, anger, and panic, as if these emotions are essential for survival. The body doesn’t know good adrenaline from bad. It just feels familiar. So if pain becomes what you’re used to, your brain will start chasing it like a drug.

I’ll be honest with you: After I left my abusive husband, I thought I’d be free. But instead, I felt lost, restless, and empty. And one day I caught myself missing the drama, missing the feeling of being needed, even if it came with cruelty.

That’s when I realized I wasn’t just healing from abuse. I was detoxing from it.

Understanding the Chemistry of Emotion

Here’s what’s really going on under the surface. Every emotion you feel, love, sadness, rage, guilt, and fear, comes with a chemical mix your body gets used to. When you feel anger or shame over and over, your body floods itself with stress hormones like cortisol and adrenaline.

And your nervous system thinks,

“Ah, yes. This is normal. Let’s keep doing that.”

It doesn’t care if it’s killing you emotionally. It only cares that it’s predictable. That’s why breaking the cycle is more than leaving them. It’s also about rewiring your system and healing your brain. You have to teach your body that peace isn’t dull, it’s safe.

Why You Keep Ending Up With the Same Kind of Person

If you’ve ever escaped one toxic relationship only to fall into another… and another…

You’re not weak or broken. You’re still addicted to the feelings that chaos brings.

And your brain will unconsciously lead you straight to people who can give you the fix.

It’s not because you want to be hurt, but it’s because deep down, you don’t yet believe you deserve anything else.

The Good News: You Can Break Free

I won’t lie to you. Healing is hard, but so is staying stuck. The difference is that one of them leads somewhere beautiful.

Here’s how I started the process, and you can too:

1. Tell yourself the truth.

Not the story you’ve been told or the lie that “this is just who you are.”

Say the truth, you are addicted to survival mode, and you were made for so much more.

2. Decide that it ends with you.

Not tomorrow, not when it gets easier. Right now.

You don’t need to hit another rock bottom to be done.

3. Catch yourself.

When the negative self-talk kicks in or when you feel that familiar urge to sabotage yourself, tell yourself, “I deserve better.

Then, breathe, even if you don’t believe it yet.

4. Let peace feel weird for a while.

Because it will, trust me. Quiet will feel loud, and safety will feel foreign.

That’s okay. Stay there anyway. Let yourself get used to calm.

5. Give it time. Give yourself grace.

This isn’t about perfection; it’s about persistence.

You’re teaching your nervous system a new language. That love doesn’t hurt, and peace doesn’t mean danger.

One More Thing,

You’re not broken. You’re not stupid for staying too long. You were surviving.

And now? You’re waking up.

Your addiction to struggle isn’t your fault, but healing is your responsibility.

You deserve a life that doesn’t hurt. And it’s waiting for you, whenever you’re ready.

Why Gratitude Feels So Hard When You Are Hurting

And why the practice of gratitude cuts deeper for survivors

Gratitude feels impossible when you are still bleeding inside.
People tell you to practice gratitude as if it were a magic cure. They do not understand that when you have lived with someone who tore you down, gratitude is not a natural instinct. Survival is because you learned to scan for danger, not beauty. You learned to brace for the next blow instead of celebrating the wins.

So when someone says, “What are you grateful for?” your mind goes silent. You think you have nothing because, for so long, everything good has come with a price. Gratitude does not bloom in a war zone.

· Misery becomes familiar, even when it hurts.
There is a strange comfort in what you already know, even if it’s toxic. Misery becomes a routine; you wake up with it every day. You sleep with it, you breathe it in, and it becomes the lens through which you see. Anything that contradicts your story feels wrong.

When people ask you to be grateful, it feels like they are asking you to betray your own truth.

For someone who lives in abuse, admitting there is still good in the world feels contradictory. It feels like letting your guard down.

· Gratitude exposes the grief you have been avoiding
Finding even one small thing to be grateful for forces you to slow down, breathe, and feel. And feeling is terrifying when you’ve spent years shutting down your own emotions just to survive.

Gratitude is not fake; it’s risky. The moment you acknowledge something good, it feels like you’re ignoring everything you lost, everything you tolerated, and everything that broke you. Gratitude brings the grief to the surface, and most days, you are already carrying more than anyone sees.

· But the smallest piece of gratitude can crack the prison walls
You do not have to write a list, and you do not have to be grateful for your trauma, the lessons, or the strength it gave you.

Forget all that.

Begin with one tiny thing, one moment where you felt safe or seen. Maybe a time you felt free to breathe. Was it a quiet morning? Or is it the fact that you left?. Maybe it is the way you no longer flinch at sudden movements.

Gratitude is not about pretending everything is fine. It is about recognizing the small signs that you are no longer living under someone else’s control.

One point of light in the dark, just one thing that reminds you that you survived. Something that proves your life is not finished, and once you find that one thing, even if it is small, you are no longer stuck in the same old story.

DON’T TAKE IT PERSONAL

Why You Take Everything Personally (And What No One Told You About It)

Let’s be real. You don’t just “hear” what someone says—you absorb it.
A sigh? You feel it like a slap.
A short text? Your stomach drops.
If they are quiet? You spiral.

Taking things personally isn’t a flaw—it’s a reaction to what you’ve been through…

Someone trained you to feel this way.

Maybe you were in a relationship like mine—one where your partner, or parents, made sure you were never really safe. Where you had to study their mood the way a sailor studies the sky.
Because one wrong word, one wrong look, could start a storm.

I know what that feels like.
To live in a home that felt more like a test.
To love someone who used your love against you.
To be blamed for everything—their anger, their silence, their outbursts, their boredom.

When you’re with an abuser, especially for years, you don’t just fear them—you become them in your own head.
You start criticizing yourself before they can.
You start shrinking your needs because it’s safer that way.
You start interpreting everything around you as a threat.

That’s why you take things personally.
Because you were trained to see danger in the subtlest shifts.

You were taught that mistakes mean punishment.
That emotions are weapons.
That love means walking on eggshells while setting yourself on fire to keep someone else warm.

So now, when someone gives you feedback, you feel attacked.
When someone pulls away, you assume it’s your fault.
When someone’s upset, you blame yourself.

But here’s the part you need to hear:
It’s not your fault.

You were conditioned to believe that your survival depended on reading people perfectly.
You weren’t being sensitive—you were being smart.
You were protecting yourself.
But now?
Now you don’t have to live like that anymore.

That voice in your head telling you “you messed up,” “they hate you,” “you ruined everything”—
That’s not your voice.
That’s theirs.
That’s the voice of the person who broke you down, not the one who gets to build you back up.

And you’re allowed to question it.
You’re allowed to replace it.
You’re allowed to heal—even if they never apologize.

So if you’re sitting there wondering why you take things so personally, let me say this:

You’re not crazy.
You’re not broken.
You’re carrying a survival instinct that once kept you safe—but it doesn’t have to run your life anymore.

You can learn to breathe again.
To trust again.
To love without fear.
To hear someone’s words without turning them into wounds.

You’re allowed to take your power back.

One truth at a time.

How to Recover After Someone Humiliates You

If something happened that left you shaky, ashamed, exposed, or suddenly doubting yourself, I want you to know this:

What you’re feeling is real. And it makes sense.

Most people have no idea what humiliation actually does to a person. They think it’s “just embarrassment.” They think you should shrug it off. But humiliation is a psychological wound. It hits the same part of your brain that reacts to physical pain. It knocks your confidence, your voice, and sometimes your sense of self out from under you.

And if no one ever taught you how to deal with this kind of emotional blow, you might be blaming yourself for a wound you never deserved.

Let’s walk through this slowly, in a way that makes space for your pain and gives you a way forward.

—

1. Something painful happened — you didn’t imagine it

Someone cut you down.
Someone used their words, tone, or power to make you feel small.
Someone spoke to you in a way that pierced straight through your dignity.

You weren’t “overreacting.”
You weren’t “too sensitive.”

You were caught off guard by a moment that should not have happened.

Humiliation exposes the person who delivered it — not the person who received it.

—

> “A painful moment happened to me. It does not define me.”

—

2. Your body responded because humiliation is a body-level injury

Most people don’t talk about this part, but humiliation hits the body first:

Your throat closes.
Your stomach flips.
Your face gets hot.
Your mind blanks out.
Your chest tightens.

This is your nervous system trying to protect you.

It doesn’t mean you’re weak.
It means you’re human.

Before you try to make sense of anything, let your body settle.

Try this:

Drop your shoulders

Loosen your jaw

Place your hand on your chest

Slow your exhale

Whisper, “I’m safe enough right now.”

You cannot think clearly in a body that feels attacked.

—

3. The wound came from the story your mind created afterward

There’s the event itself…
and then there’s the meaning your mind wrapped around it.

Humiliation tries to whisper things like:

“Everyone saw.”

“You looked foolish.”

“You should’ve known better.”

“They were right about you.”

But those thoughts aren’t truth.
They’re the bruise talking.

Say this gently: “The story I told myself was…”

Name it so it stops running the show in the dark.

—

4. Humiliation makes you want to hide — but hiding keeps the wound open

After you’re hurt like this, the instinct to disappear is strong.
You avoid eye contact, replay the moment, pull your energy inward.
You shrink as if shrinking will protect you.

But hiding is exactly what keeps the wound tender.

You don’t have to tell the whole story.
Just start with one simple sentence:

“Something happened that made me feel small.”

Speaking it breaks the isolation humiliation depends on.

—

5. Reclaim your authority over what the moment meant

When someone cuts you down, their voice can become louder in your head than your own.

But your dignity is still yours.

Say: “I get to decide what this means.”

Not them.
Not the moment.
Not the fear that followed.

You.

Every time you say it, something inside you stands a little straighter.

—

6. Give yourself what you needed in that moment

Ask yourself: “What did I need right then?”

Respect?
Understanding?
Protection?
Someone to step in?
Someone to say, “That wasn’t okay”?

Now ask: “How can I give even a small piece of that to myself now?”

This is what begins to repair the psychological wound.

—

Here’s the truth I want you to carry with you

You are not the smallness someone tried to put on you.
You are not the version of yourself their words tried to create.
You are not the moment that knocked your voice out of your chest.

You were wounded.
And wounded people don’t need shame — they need understanding, space, and a way back to themselves.

This is that way back.

👉 Download the Humiliation Recovery Guide

Why Happiness Makes You Nervous

For the girl who thinks the tightness in her chest is normal

Good times make you nervous, don’t they?

You don’t call it fear—you call it “being cautious,” or “not getting your hopes up.” But the truth is quieter: you’re not used to peace. For so long, love has felt like tension, panic, apologizing, overthinking, and walking around someone else’s moods like they’re landmines.

So when something finally goes right… Your whole body glitches.

You look around, waiting for the explosion.
You wait for the tone in his voice to shift.
You wait for the moment he decides you’re “too sensitive,” “too emotional,” or “too much.”

And if nothing happens right away, your brain fills the silence with dread: Is this the part where it all turns again?
You don’t trust happiness—not because you’re broken, but because you’ve survived too long without it.

Girls like us learn early that peace feels like a trap.
A setup.
A calm before the next storm.

No one told you that real love isn’t supposed to feel like bracing for impact.
No one told you that safety isn’t the same thing as “keeping the peace.”
No one told you that if your body relaxes only when he isn’t home… that’s not comfort. That’s survival.

Listen, sweetheart—if happiness feels foreign, it’s not because you’re incapable of it.
It’s because someone taught you to expect pain.

And here’s the part I wish someone had whispered to me sooner:
You don’t have to keep living in the story where fear feels like love. You don’t have to keep shrinking yourself just to fit into a relationship that was never safe to begin with.

Real peace doesn’t make you nervous.
Real love doesn’t make you flinch.
And real happiness doesn’t feel like a setup—it feels like finally coming home to yourself.

You deserve that kind of happiness.
And I promise… it won’t explode.

When someone ties despair to God Himself, it buries you in a deeper kind of fear. You stop dreaming. You stop believing in the better. And every time life gets quiet, you brace yourself, because you know the calm never lasts.

I remember once, after one of our rare calm seasons, we tried to dream again. We made a little vision board together — nothing extravagant, just things a normal couple would hope for. A peaceful home. A reliable car. A future that didn’t feel like walking through broken glass.

But his face went dark, the way it always did when anything felt too good.

He looked at me and said,

“God hates me. We will never get any of this.”

And just like that, the air changed.
The hope drained out of the room.
My body learned — again — that peace wasn’t safe, and happiness wasn’t to be trusted.

When You Take the Blame That Wasn’t Yours to Begin With

To Every Woman Still Carrying the Weight That Was Never Hers

I used to believe that everything was my fault.

The slammed doors, the silence, the yelling that followed the silence, the fists that followed the yelling—I took the blame for all of it. If dinner was cold, it was my fault. If he had a bad day, somehow I caused it. If he lost his temper, I should’ve known better. I should’ve stayed quiet. I should’ve smiled more. I should’ve been less.

When you live under the same roof as someone who thrives off control, you learn quickly that survival means shrinking yourself. It means bending until you barely resemble a person. It means learning the art of swallowing blame for things that never had anything to do with you—because arguing only brings pain, and agreeing brings temporary peace.

But what they don’t tell you is that even when you get out—when you finally pack the bags, find the courage, or flee in the middle of the night with nothing but your breath in your chest—that voice follows you.

Even in freedom, I found myself taking the blame for things that weren’t mine.

If a friend was upset, I’d replay our last ten conversations, convinced I did something wrong. If my boss looked stressed, I’d take on extra work, hoping it would ease a tension I didn’t cause. I’d apologize for everything. For asking questions. For not asking enough. For existing, sometimes. I was hunting for ways to feel terrible, and life kept handing me proof that I was right… because that’s what trauma does. It warps the lens.

But here’s the truth I’ve learned—he was wrong.

I was not the problem. I was not too sensitive. I was not too loud or too quiet or too emotional or too needy. I was not weak for staying. I was not selfish for leaving.

Healing isn’t linear, and it sure as hell isn’t clean. Some days, the guilt creeps back in like fog through a cracked window. But I catch it now. I see it for what it is: a ghost of the past, trying to convince me that I’m still that powerless woman I used to be.

I’m not her anymore.

I don’t carry blame that isn’t mine. I lay it down and walk away from it.

Now, I advocate. I speak. I write. I sit with other survivors and tell them: you are not crazy. You are not broken. And you are not to blame.

If you’re reading this and you’ve ever felt like the villain in your own story—take a breath. Hand back what was never yours to carry.

You deserve peace. You deserve love. And most of all, you deserve to be free from blame that was never yours to begin with.

You survived.

Now it’s time to thrive.

Why You Always Zero In on What Hurts

When trauma teaches you to fear the good, trusting peace can feel like betrayal

Have you ever noticed how fast your mind finds the crack in the glass?

Something good happens—and before it even settles, you’ve already ruined it in your head.
You pass the test, then tell yourself you’ll probably fail the next one.
Someone says they’re proud of you, and you immediately wonder what they really meant.
You finally get a moment of peace, and instead of resting in it, you’re holding your breath waiting for it to explode.

That’s not you being dramatic.
That’s trauma.
That’s conditioning.

When you’ve lived in survival mode long enough—when love came with punishment, when silence meant danger, when even your joy got twisted into a weapon—you stop trusting anything that feels too good.

Your brain starts treating calm like a trap.
It looks for warning signs even when there aren’t any.
Because in your experience, the good things never came without a price.

So, of course, your mind zeroes in on what hurts.
That was your safety plan. That’s how you kept yourself alive.

You learned to listen for footsteps. You studied his moods like they were gospel. You walked on eggshells because they were safer than landmines.

So when someone tells you to “just think positive” or “celebrate the good,” it doesn’t land. It feels fake. It feels dangerous. Because in your world, hope always came back with bruises.

I remember the day I reached for help.

I wasn’t even expecting a miracle—just someone to see me. I told the truth. I admitted I was scared, confused, and unraveling. I laid it all out there: how small I felt, how broken I had become, how the God I was clinging to didn’t feel like He was anywhere near me anymore.

And the answer I got?

“Just go home and be a good wife.”

No rescue. No comfort. Just a command.
That broke something in me.
I learned right then: honesty doesn’t guarantee help. Hope can backfire.
So I stopped reaching. I started bracing harder. I got quieter.
Because at least silence couldn’t slap me in the face like that again.

That moment shaped me. And not in a holy way.

But here’s what I want to tell you—what someone should have told me:

You’re not negative.
You’re not broken.
You are conditioned. And you can unlearn it.

But not by pretending. Not by slapping affirmations over your scars.

It starts small. Like this:
When the voice comes up that says, “This won’t last,” or “You don’t deserve this,”
just pause.
Don’t fight it. Don’t obey it. Just notice it.

That voice isn’t your truth.
It’s your trauma.

And slowly, you can start choosing differently.

Not because you’re suddenly healed. But because for once, you’re finally allowed to be aware of how deep the damage goes—and how much more you were made for.

You’re allowed to want peace without fear.
You’re allowed to hold joy without bracing for pain.
You’re allowed to believe something good… might actually be good.

Even if your brain’s not there yet, you are.

GRATITUDE IN REVERSE

What felt like the end of the world turned out to be my greatest gift.

Albert charged into the side door of our house, clad in polyester basketball shorts and a t-shirt adorned with armpit sweat.

I inhaled, holding my breath, thinking, “Oh boy, what now?”.

“Pastor Riggs told me to hand in my resignation.”

He wouldn’t say he got fired — that would sound too obvious, like admitting he did something wrong. No, he was ‘asked to resign.’ He explained, with pride, that he had told the pastor off and had a long list of reasons.

All I could think of was Thanksgiving back in 2007, when we had to eat spaghetti because he had been fired from a previous position helping a pastor grow his church. He didn’t have a proper title, so we called him the church evangelist — but really, he was the church shit stirrer. I can recall three men who have dared to tell Albert the truth to his face. None of these men was a hothead like him. They had boundaries, and he crossed them. One preacher even went so far as to call him “a wolf in sheep’s clothing.” I remember that night and still chuckle inwardly.

But this day felt like the end of an era—the end of our lives. We knew poverty. We survived it. But I was so tired of just surviving. So tired of pinching pennies, being the recipient of groceries because people felt sorry for us. I was downright exhausted. He told off the wrong guy, and that guy had the balls to stand up for himself. Kudos. But that didn’t help the situation. We were in dire straits. Bills do not miraculously stop just because you lose a job. No, electricity still runs, and a bill is still accumulating.

This is when he decided we would pursue his lifelong dream of starting a cleaning business.

“Oh gawd, yuck. I hate cleaning.” I thought. I did not want to do this. But being the obedient wife I was,

I said, “Okay.”

I was already at my wits’ end with him. I had even filed a restraining order earlier that year, thinking it would change him and he would be a different person. It only changed me. I became a different person. I was finding my voice.

We pushed along, started from scratch, and kept on scratching until we had a decent little cleaning business. It turned out it wasn’t as brutal as I thought it would be —cleaning, that is. Since he was OCD, I had learned to pay attention to detail.

I remember one time he was at work (I was a stay-at-home wife and mom), he may have been at bible college. Regardless, I spent all day cleaning the house. I wasn’t taught to keep a clean home. As a kid, my room was livable — clothes piled up, and I’d make a path to the bed and push them off to sleep. Dishes would overflow in the sink and onto the counters, even with a dishwasher sitting right there. My mom never asked for help — just pouted on weekends, complaining nobody helped her. But she never asked for help. I do not remember a single time my mom showed me how to wash dishes or asked me to wash them. But when I stayed the summer at my aunt’s house, she made me clean up after myself and even showed me how to clean behind the toilet.

So like I said, living with an OCD person – my husband – taught me to pay attention to detail.

Back to the part where I had cleaned all day, then he came home and went on a rampage:

“What have you been doing all day? Why does the house look like this? Get off your lazy ass and clean this fucking house!”

Nothing was lying around —not even a particle on the floor; everything had been freshly mopped and vacuumed. Do you know what he saw? A smudge on the corner of a mirror. Something I had missed. I cried that day. But I learned how to pay attention to detail on that day, too.

Cleaning houses felt a bit rewarding. I cleaned behind toilets and wiped baseboards, tops of door frames, and ledges on the doors. Top to bottom. No mirror had a smudge, and you could eat off the toilet seat. 10/10 would not recommend, but it would have been safe to do so.

As time went by, my disgust for him grew. But I could not figure out how to survive on my own with all these kids still living at home. It wasn’t until he got sick. Real sick. He ran a fever for over a week and refused to see a doctor. He would come downstairs and cry and whine like a baby, literally. Imagine a 3-year-old whining when they want their way. That was him. Then he would go back upstairs to sleep. He slept and slept. I would bring him soup, tea, water, and even made a homemade herbal remedy, which, for the first time in our 23-year marriage, he took. I welcomed the quietness his illness brought me, but I still performed my wifely duties of “in sickness and in health,”. Then went to clean the houses by myself. My daughter, who was in Christian school, would take a few days off to help me, but I found it easier to clean by myself than to go behind her to make sure she did it right. Not that she couldn’t clean, but this was our only income, and I didn’t feel I had room for mistakes.

Two more days went by, and he did not get out of bed. I got scared. I realized something was really wrong with him. He’s not faking or overreacting this time. So I called my sister-in-law and told her what was going on, and she said,

“You march up there and tell him he is going to the doctor, that he doesn’t have a choice.”

And so I did. He refused, crying and whining the whole time I was helping him dress, like a child not wanting to leave the park. Then, I drove him straight to the hospital. The doctor asked a bunch of questions that I answered, since he liked to withhold vital information. I even got the doctor to give him a prostate exam, which brings a smile to my face today. Turns out it was his appendix. It had been oozing into his body, and instead of being able to have the simple surgery, he had the large one where they cut from the top of the sternum to the pubic bone. I felt little sympathy for him, and he is a miserable patient. I was thankful to have work to go to. Grateful that we had just started an enormous organization project that was able to keep me away from seeing his green face and the black bile coming out of his mouth. His recovery took over six weeks. But by then, I’d already been cleaning solo for 8 — and I realized I could keep doing it. I could support my family without him. He had already lost interest in cleaning, wanting always to rush through the houses. He was there only to collect the check. Turns out he did not have as great a work ethic as he proclaimed.

When we finally separated, he left me the house and the business. A detailed story for another page, but what I thought was the end was just the beginning.

I thought when he got fired, we were going to do like we always did and move to another state and start all over. But instead, we started a cleaning business I didn’t want to start, and that business helped me support my then-6 kids at home. And without him there to tell me how the money was going to be spent frivolously, I was finally able to buy my kids’ school clothes and school supplies. For the first time, when they came to me with a need, I was able to supply it.

And that was the greatest gift of all.

Why No One Can Cheer You Up (And Why You Don’t Want Them To)

It’s not that you can’t feel better…it’s that you don’t trust better.

When you’re upset, it feels like nothing can touch you. Friends try to cheer you up, but their words bounce right off. You shut it down with,

“You don’t understand,” or “I can’t help the way I feel.”

Here’s the thing: you’re not wrong for wanting to sit in your feelings. Pain can feel safer than pretending everything’s okay. But sometimes, without realizing it, you hold on to that pain like proof. Proof that you were hurt, evidence that your feelings are real, proof that you’re not invisible.

And letting it go? That feels scary. Because misery, as heavy as it is, can start to feel familiar. Almost like home.

You’re not broken for feeling this way. You’ve just learned to live with despair for so long that happiness feels foreign. But here’s the truth: you deserve more than the familiar depression. You deserve peace, even if it feels uncomfortable at first.

Such was I. I lived in an abusive marriage for 24 years. When I finally dared to leave, I started reflecting and asked myself,

“Why had I stayed so long?”

In the future, I knew I didn’t want to make the same mistake. I didn’t want to end up in another abusive marriage. So I looked back at my past relationships, and they were all the same. Abusive.

Wow. Who am I? And why am I choosing this path?

That’s when I realized I had an addiction problem. I was addicted to pain—the pain and the drama of the chaos. I was stuck in a cycle, like a revolving door. So I constantly had to remind myself why I was leaving. I had to remind myself that I deserved better and that I should look for someone who was the complete opposite.

And that’s precisely what I did. Today, I stand on the other side of abuse. Stronger, freer, and committed to helping others find their own path out.

Need help?
If you or someone you know is struggling with addiction, emotional distress, or abuse, support is available 24/7:

Addiction Recovery: Call 866-606-0182 or visit our treatment center directory
Suicide & Crisis Lifeline: Dial 988 (free, confidential, 24/7)
Domestic Violence Hotline: Call 800-799-7233 or text START to 88788
Sexual Assault Hotline (RAINN): Call 800-656-4673 or visit online.rainn.org

You are not alone. There is help. There is hope. And you are worth the healing.

Question Everything

“Learn from yesterday, live for today, hope for tomorrow. The important thing is not to stop questioning.” – Albert Einstein

Have you ever asked God, “Why?”

Have you ever questioned His existence?

Have you ever screamed out in agony, wondering why YOU even exist?

Have you ever wondered how a “loving God” could allow such pain and suffering?

Have you ever sat in a puddle of your own tears and felt you couldn’t go on?

Have you ever felt the hatred burning in your bones?

Have you ever tried to wake up, hoping it was just a nightmare?

Have you ever sought answers but found none?

Have you ever wondered, “Why me?”

Have you ever put on a fake smile so that you didn’t have to talk about it?

Have you ever wanted to start all over?

Have you ever wanted to give up? Everyday?

Have you ever wondered why you couldn’t get on the good side of life?

Have you ever felt cursed?

Have you ever felt depressed and regretted so much of your life?

I have.

“The power to question is the basis of all human progress.” – Indira Gandhi

How many times have you been told that you should never question God? I lost count of the times I was told that. But guess what? He understands. We were born questioning everything around us. That is how we learn and grow. The only ignorant question is the one that is never asked. Asking questions clears confusion, gives us a better understanding of any given situation, and helps us find answers. Questions help solve problems. It is absolutely fine to question our life; it shows that we do not accept our current position or status and that we are willing to improve.

Yoli's Write To Sanity

Just Breathe And Write

Category: Divorce