The Crucible of Drowning

For years, I kept my hand above the water while I was drowning. I was waiting for someone to come save me. I was sinking, clawing, gasping for air, and nobody—not a single person—gave a damn. They watched me struggle. They watched me disappear. And not one of them stepped in. I drowned. Slowly. Painfully. Publicly. And when I finally dragged myself back to shore, broken and bleeding from the fight, they had the nerve to ask me, “Where have you been?” Where the fuck was anyone when I was drowning?

I sat on that shore for two long, unbearable years. The kind of time that doesn’t just pass—it grinds you down, day after day, until every part of you aches. I remember the nights when my cries tore through the silence, guttural and raw, bloodcurdling screams that left my throat shredded and raw. My voice was ragged, hoarse from sobbing until there was nothing left but broken sound. My eyes stung endlessly, swollen and burning from a flood of tears that seemed endless, as if my body was trying to drown the pain with more pain.

And my heart—my goddamn heart—felt like it was breaking over and over, like it was shattering in slow motion. Every beat was a fresh stab of loneliness and betrayal. The kind of loneliness that isn’t about physical space but the hollow, aching emptiness inside. That gut-wrenching, soul-splitting realization that no one was coming. That no one had even noticed I was gone. That in the moments I needed someone to reach out, to hold me, to tell me it would be okay, I was utterly fucking alone.

That shoreline was my prison and my confessional all at once—a barren, unforgiving place where I was stripped bare, forced to face the raw, unfiltered wreckage of my soul. It wasn’t just a patch of earth beside the water; it was an altar built from my brokenness. Every shattered piece of me laid out, exposed and aching beneath a sky that gave no answers.

I had no choice but to worship at that altar—no priest, no savior, no witness but myself. I became the reluctant worshipper and the shattered deity all at once. Every day, I had to kneel before my own pain and acknowledge the depth of my ruin. I had to plead with the fragments of who I once was, begging them to come home, to hold together, to believe in the possibility of healing when all I wanted was to stay broken.

I prayed—not to any higher power, but to the person staring back at me in the mirror of that cruel shore. I prayed for strength when my bones felt like they’d crumble. I begged for mercy when my heart was too raw to bear its own weight. I pleaded with myself to hold on, to fight through the suffocating loneliness and rage that threatened to swallow me whole.

Worshipping myself wasn’t an act of vanity—it was an act of desperation. Because in that place, I realized I was all I had left. The only hand I could clasp was my own. The only voice I could trust was the one I had to learn to listen to again.

That altar of brokenness became my crucible. I burned away the illusions that kept me tethered to false hope and empty promises. I surrendered to the fierce, savage truth that survival would come not from outside, but from within—by honoring the pain, by embracing the rage, and by forging a fierce, unbreakable love for the one person I could count on: myself.

It was brutal. It was lonely. But it was also the beginning of my resurrection.

I’m done with waiting for salvation from people who never cared enough to save me in the first place. I’m done with hoping someone will notice the pain I carry and come running. I’m done with begging for help from ghosts who were never there. Because I realized something so simple it burns: nobody is coming. Nobody will save me. I’m it. I am my own fucking rescue.

I’m not looking for pity. I’m not looking for saviors. I’m done with broken promises and empty hands. From here on out, it’s me. Fighting for me. Scraping and clawing my way through every goddamn day, one brutal step at a time. If people want to walk beside me, fine. But I will never stop to ask why someone leaves again. Because I don’t need anyone else to save me. I’m not drowning anymore. I’m standing. And I’m coming for my own life with everything I have.

This isn’t a plea. It’s a declaration. I’m done being invisible in my own suffering. Done being the quiet one, the broken one, the one who “needs help” but never got it. I’m done with the shame of survival and the guilt of needing someone else to reach down and pull me out. Because that’s a lie I told myself for too long—that someone else would care enough to save me. They didn’t. They won’t. And the bitter truth? That’s on them. Not on me.

I survived without them. I kept breathing when no one gave me air. I fought when no one threw me a lifeline. I clawed out of the darkness when all I had was myself. So now, I’m building from the ashes they left behind. I’m raw and angry and goddamn determined. Every scar on my skin is a story they chose to ignore. Every tear I shed is a battle they lost by watching and doing nothing. But I’m still here. Stronger. Sharper. Fueled by rage that doesn’t consume me but powers me.

I’m not waiting for rescue anymore. I’m not waiting for the world to care or for someone to finally decide I’m worth it. Because I am worth it. I’m worth the fight. I’m worth the pain it takes to rebuild. I’m worth every hard day, every grueling step forward. I’m not waiting anymore. I’m moving. And if the world wants to watch? Fine. Because this time, they’re watching me rise.

This is the truth no one wants to admit: sometimes, the people you thought would save you are the ones who let you drown. They stood on the shore, arms crossed, eyes averted, pretending not to see the struggle you were fighting just beneath the surface. That’s not weakness. That’s brutal reality. And it’s a poison you have to spit out. Because if you don’t, you’ll stay stuck waiting for a savior who never existed. So you burn that lie to the ground. You take your shattered pieces and make something new.

Not because you want to prove them wrong—fuck proving anything to anyone—but because your life demands it. You owe yourself the fight. You owe yourself the freedom that comes with not needing anyone else. You owe yourself the anger that fuels the damn fire inside. This isn’t about revenge. It’s about reclamation. Taking back the power they tried to steal by watching you sink.

I’m done being a victim. I’m done being a shadow of my own self. I’m done hoping someone will come rescue me. Because I’m not waiting anymore. I’m here. I’m standing. I’m fighting. And I’m winning.