This Isn’t a Gift. It’s Grief.

Content Warning: This piece includes references to psychiatric hospitalization, forced medication, trauma, systemic abuse, and mental health struggles. Please take care while reading and pause if needed.

I often hear people say, “What happened to me made me who I am today,” as if that’s supposed to bring some kind of comfort or meaning. Like suffering must justify itself. Like trauma should come wrapped in a silver lining.

But what happened to me?

What happened to me led to both involuntary and voluntary hospitalizations. It meant being forcibly drugged, medicated without consent, and repeatedly told that I was the problem instead of someone in pain. I spent years on medications that were never my choice, many of which caused more harm than good. I’ve been in therapy since I was a kid, seeing dozens of professionals. Only two were truly helpful. The rest were ineffective at best and actively harmful at worst. I’ve poured thousands and thousands of dollars into care that often did more damage than healing.

So no, I don’t say “what happened to me made me who I am” to comfort myself or anyone else. That phrase doesn’t fit my reality.

What happened to me left me hypervigilant. I can't fully rest. I struggle with sleep. I move in and out of agoraphobia. I hear voices. I shift through altered states that most people will never understand. I've lost jobs, opportunities, relationships. And most days, daily life doesn’t feel like growth. It feels like survival.

How is that a gift?

How am I supposed to find comfort in a life that was stolen from me?

Not just by the people who abused me, but by the systems that claimed to help. Systems that labeled me, drugged me, punished me for my pain, and called it care. Systems that failed me over and over again.

Some people find meaning in their suffering. I don’t fault them for that. But I’m not going to pretend that what happened to me was okay or that it created something beautiful.

What I’ve been through wasn’t a gift. It was a life interrupted, a grief few recognize, and still, it’s mine to name and mourn.