The Day I Lost My Mind

In Search Of My Heart

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It happened on a Tuesday.

I was cracked wide open—grief-stricken, heartbroken, terrified. And in that rawness, people I knew and trusted said things like:

“Get over it.”
“You’ll survive—we all did.”
“Time to move on.”

Their words felt like stepping over the wreckage of something I loved. Maybe they didn’t mean to be cruel. But I was bleeding, and they were talking about fences.

And I hated them for it.

Not forever. Not completely. But in that moment? Yeah. Hate bubbled up like poison—hate for the carelessness, the celebration of harm, the laughter in the face of real fear. I wanted to strike back. To make them understand by any means necessary.

But then a voice.
A small one, the one I keep tucked away for emergencies.
It whispered:

“Stop. You don’t want to do that.”

I argued back. I have to! I have to stop the bleeding, close the gates, build the wall before more damage gets in.

“Stop before you hurt someone you love.”

A…