The Quiet Before the Autopsy
New Year's Eve. Time for contemplating the future. But not for me. I was knee-deep in dissecting the past, examining it like a forensic investigator at a long-abandoned crime scene. Some truths reveal themselves only in hindsight—the stains on the carpet, the lingering comments, the hesitant glances, the way someone chose to sit a bit further away one night.
The human mind is a fickle thing, lulling us into a false sense of safety when we're in the middle of a shitstorm. It shields us from the gruesome reality, telling us everything is okay because facing the alternative would mean tearing down the very structure of our lives.
But once the dam breaks and the structure collapses, the scales fall from your eyes, revealing the rot that had always been festering beneath. And here I am now, not fueled by rage (not yet), but burning with curiosity.
Abuse doesn't always knock on your door with a violent rage. Sometimes, it's dressed in polite smiles, a perfect disguise for the monster hiding beneath. It convinces you that you’re lucky to be included, that you should be grateful. And by the time you realize the game was rigged from the start, years have passed, and you're stuck in a life you don't recognize anymore.
This New Year's Eve, people are scribbling down their resolutions. I have a simpler one. I'm done biting my tongue. I'm done living a lie wrapped in a pretty package. It's time to face the mirror and tell the truth, once and for all. Because sometimes, the truth is the sharpest scalpel, cutting through the bullshit to expose the harsh, unvarnished reality. And that, my darlings, is the beginning of something real.