I don’t really know how to start this, other than to say: I’ve been awful lately.
Not just “a bit off” or “snappy because I’m tired.” I’ve said things I can’t take back. I’ve treated people I love like they’re disposable. People who’ve been kind, patient, who didn’t deserve the version of me they got. I can’t even bring myself to blame the stress or mental health stuff—because even if that’s part of it, it doesn’t excuse it. I’ve hurt people. I know that. And I hate that about myself right now.
And so, before I go any further, I need to say this clearly: I’m sorry.
To the friends I’ve treated badly recently—to the ones I pushed away, lashed out at, snapped at for no reason—I am truly, deeply sorry. You didn’t deserve it. You were trying to care, trying to be there, and I threw that back in your face. Not because I don’t value you, but because sometimes I feel like I don’t deserve your kindness, and I don’t know how to handle it. That’s not an excuse. It’s just the ugly truth. I hope, in time, you can forgive me. And even if you can’t, I understand.
I’ve been sitting with this horrible, gnawing guilt. That heavy, acidic kind of guilt that sticks to your ribs and makes everything else feel pointless. And the worst bit is, I keep doing it. Like I’m stuck in this cycle of self-sabotage, pushing people away before they can leave me—because some part of me thinks I deserve to be left.
It’s lonely. Really lonely.
And lately, I’ve started wondering if there’s something bigger I’m missing. Something that could help me feel held when I feel like I’m falling apart. Something that could offer even a sliver of peace when my head is a war zone.
I’ve started thinking about faith. Not in a grand, dramatic way. More like a quiet knock on a door I’ve ignored for most of my life.
Could religion—faith, spirituality, God, whatever name you give it—be what’s missing?
I don’t come from a religious background. I’ve always kept it at a distance. It felt like something other people leaned on, but not for me. I never really let myself consider that it might actually be a way through the mess in my head.
But now I’m sitting here, looking at the damage I’ve caused and wondering how I got so far from the person I want to be. And it makes me think: maybe I need something outside of myself. Something steady. Something that won’t walk away when I screw up. Maybe that’s what faith is—something that stays when you don’t even want to stay with yourself.
I’m not looking for a miracle or a lightning bolt from the sky. I’m not expecting to wake up tomorrow and be healed. But I am starting to think that maybe, just maybe, faith could help me try. Could give me something to hold on to when I feel like letting go. Could teach me how to forgive myself—something I’ve never been good at.
I’m not sure where to begin. I don’t even know what I believe. But I know what it feels like to be drowning in your own guilt and still pretending to be fine. And I know I can’t do this alone anymore.
So here I am, asking the question out loud, with no pride left to protect me:
Could religion be part of my healing?
I don’t know the answer. But I’m open now. And maybe that’s the first real step I’ve taken in a long time.