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Chapter 4: 

E is for exhaustion, emotional, and essential 

Isaiah 40:31 

Exhaustion is more than just a physical state—it’s a complete body shutdown that reaches the deepest corners of your soul. It’s holding onto the weight of two lives when one refuses to carry their own. It is fighting for someone else’s chance at a future while quietly watching pieces of your own life float away. Yet even in that state, you keep going, because giving up isn’t an option you’ve been allowed to consider. 

The world loves to label us. They call us weak for staying, foolish for trying, blind for believing. But they don’t see the battlefield behind our eyes, the war our loved one is fighting inside themselves, the chaos we navigate daily. They fail to grasp that walking away isn’t leaving a person—it’s abandoning every memory, every hope, every plan you imagined for your future. That is not weakness. That is the hardest choice anyone could face, and most will never understand it. 

Women like us are not delicate—we’re gladiators. We endure what others can’t, not because we’re blind, but because we care so deeply, it becomes a kind of obsession. We see the spark of who they once were, and we’re willing to gamble on it, even if they’ve stopped betting on themselves. This is not called stupidity. It’s incomprehensible, relentless, selfless love.  

You know that feeling when every part of you is drained, and you wonder how much more you can grasp before everything slips away? Days stretch into nights that feel endless, each one a mirror of the last. Somehow, though, you find power you didn’t know existed.  

You’ve forgotten what it means to calm down, to breathe without panic, to feel peace. Exhaustion becomes your second skin, your default setting. Even when your body screams for respite, you can’t stop—you have no choice. You know better, because stop means going head-to-head with everything that is waiting on the other side. 

They never tell you about the emotional weight—the strain that gnaws at the edges of your sanity long after the physical fatigue hits. And just when you think you’ve reached the limit of your endurance, mental exhaustion arrives, sharper than a blade, relentless. The constant worry, the endless watching, the ceaseless questioning, the analyzing, the planning—it’s a battlefield of its own. 

You pour everything you have into their survival. You sacrifice your heart, your time, your energy, and pieces of yourself vanish along the way. But who’s there to catch you when you fall? When your soul frays and your spirit shakes at the edge of despair? Who’s there when you’re barely holding on? That emptiness doesn’t excuse the fight—it fuels it. 

Exhaustion doesn’t just follow you—it stalks you. It greets you in the morning as you clean yesterday’s mess, shadows you through the day while you plaster smiles on your face, and tucks you in at night with your racing thoughts. You dig deeper than ever, knowing tomorrow you’ll do it all over again. You’ve been told you have nothing left to give, and they’re right—but still, you give. 

Somewhere in all of this, you start to fracture. Waves of anger, sorrow, and frustration crash over you without warning. One moment, you’re holding it all together. The next, you’re collapsing under the weight of feelings you cannot control. Walking across this life feels like stepping on rickety boards over a chasm, knowing one misstep will send you tumbling—but you keep going, baby step by baby step. 

You know what it is to run on empty—every ounce of you screaming defeat—yet you refuse to stop. Your mind protests, your body begs for pause, but your heart refuses to surrender. You endure because that’s what love demands. You show up, every single day, no questions asked. 

Even in the deepest exhaustion, there’s something essential that keeps you moving. It’s a force bigger than yourself, bigger than the chaos, bigger than the addiction. When the world tells you it isn’t worth it, you rise anyway. You prove them wrong. You prove him worthy. You prove that your tears, your time, your heart, are never wasted. 

And every day, you choose. Whose side are you on? His or the world’s? You fight for him, even when he can’t fight for himself. Even when he pretends not to hear, not to notice—you know he does. And when the storm passes, when the dust settles, he’ll remember. And so will you. 

The emotional toll is immense. You leave pieces of yourself behind with every crisis. The constant vigilance, the protective maneuvers, the quiet shame, the invisible burden—it’s all part of your role. Your job. You shield him from judgment, from humiliation, from the world. And somehow, through it all, you don’t hate him—you only love him harder, more fiercely. Until the day you decide otherwise; that commitment will never change. 

This is your life. Your warzone. Your responsibility. It demands every ounce of your physical strength, emotional resilience, mental stamina, and patience. But if we can do it, so can you. You’re not alone. Even gladiators need rest. Even warriors must breathe, must feel, must exist without the weight of the world pressing them into the ground. It’s okay. It’s necessary. 

Take a moment, breathe, sit with the truth: you’ve endured the unimaginable. You’ve witnessed devastation, felt the weight of impossible choices, loved despite chaos. This exhaustion, this emotional fatigue, this ceaseless necessity to persist—it’s not weakness. It’s proof of your strength. You are a champion. You are relentless. You are someone who sacrifices endlessly, sees the good where others see nothing, and loves when the world tells you not to.  

This chapter is your mirror. It is your reminder that the exhaustion, the emotions, and the essential force driving you forward—they are all part of your power. Even when the nights are long, even when the chaos seems endless, even when your heart wants to break—keep showing up. That’s where resilience is forged. That’s where your strength is born. That’s where the real battle is won. Keep exhaling. You got this. This is for you. 

Are you there, Satan? It’s me, Morganne. 

I just wanted to stop in, to show you my gratitude for how smooth you’ve been lately. Not. 

Why are you such a vicious, conniving snake? Thank you—for making him choose between his family, my babies, and me… or you. Thank you for slithering into every crevice of his mind until he can’t tell daylight from your darkness. It’s starting to really hurt my feelings, and I need you to back off before there’s nothing left of him—before he withers completely out of society, out of reality, out of me. 

You must feel incredible, watching families collapse like dominoes. You always win, don’t you? Never second place. You’ve built a kingdom out of ruin, and we—idiots in love—are the rubble. Indiana is crawling with you, your poison seeping through veins, through towns, through homes like mine. It’s an infestation that doesn’t discriminate. I swear to God, I’d trade my own heartbeat if it meant saving just one of them—from you, from themselves, from the hell you’ve manufactured. 

People worship the ground you rot. 

Do you know that within fourteen days of him coming home, every so‑called “friend” from our past was already asking if he wanted to get high? Fourteen days of freedom, and the vultures were already circling. “Wanna try some fire?” they said—fully aware that he’d just survived a cage. I could’ve clawed my way through the phone and shredded every single one of their faces. 

Because of you, my world is upside‑down again. I’ve been absolutely wrecked these last few days. This morning, I was a damn hurricane—begging, sobbing, on my knees—pleading with him not to fall back into your trap. His response? 

 “Stop trying to run my life. I’m going to do what I want.” 

Just like that. One sentence. No hesitation. No thought. 

The day he left me, I swore nothing on Earth could ever hurt that bad. My heart physically ached. For the first time, I understood how someone could actually die of heartbreak. I forgot how to breathe, how to think, how to exist. I was manic—just a broken woman begging for the missing piece of her life to come home and pretend none of this ever happened. But it did happen, didn’t it, Satan? You made sure of that. 

My anger runs bone‑deep. How did we let it get this bad? How did I? You watched the bounty hunters drag him off over a stupid warrant, and you laughed. You knew I’d still be here, cleaning up the emotional shrapnel. 

Here’s what keeps me up at night: even after hearing his girlfriend fall apart on the other end of the phone—her voice breaking, her soul clawing for air—he still chose you. You. He still chose the needle over love, the high over home. He chose you over me. Over us. Over the life we built. 

Satan, he was panting and crying over you. Not me. Not his children. Not his God. You. And I will never forget the sound of it—the devotion, the desperation, the kind of loyalty I once prayed he’d give to me. 

While he mourned the loss of his next fix, I was lying on the bedroom floor, staring at the ceiling for hours, begging God to just let me rest my eyes. The mental exhaustion was enough to kill me. I couldn’t tell where grief ended and insanity began. 

He wasn’t losing sleep over me. He wasn’t choking on the thought of life without me. He wasn’t the one praying for peace between sobs. I was. And he was still chasing you. 

You’ve won so many times that even his pain belongs to you. 

And I hate you for it. I hate you more in this moment than I have ever hated anything in my entire life. 

—Morganne 

Exhaustion does not end when the night falls, nor does it fade when the sun rises. It follows you into every conversation, every laugh, every forced smile, wrapping its weight around your chest until even simple breaths feel like resistance. It feels like I’m operating in neutral—trapped in a haze of constant survival mode. This sensation rarely subsides. It seems as if neutral may have become my new normal. And when the physical fatigue finally ebbs, the emotional toll rises like a tide—an unrelenting wave of grief, frustration, and helplessness that no amount of willpower can hold back. 

It’s the kind of fatigue that creeps into your thoughts, stealing any chance of quietness, and replacing it with endless rotations of worry, fear, and regret. It feels like trying to breathe when there is no room in your lungs for air. Every muscle, every bone, and every beat of your heart seems to demand more than you can provide. But it never stops beating—it continues to thrive. There is no pause button. When the world around you keeps spinning—when the chaos drowns out your own voice—and when every second feels like a tug-of-war, just to keep going. 

You learn, almost violently, that being strong is not about ignoring pain. Strength is showing up even when your spirit feels shredded, when your body screams at you to collapse, when the world seems to have packed up and left you with all the chaos alone. And yet, somehow, you keep going. You find yourself walking through the motions of a life that feels like it’s suspended in quicksand, every step requiring more energy than the last, every decision weighed with consequence you cannot control. 

The most dangerous part is the emotional erosion you barely notice at first. It creeps in like smoke, infiltrating your thoughts, seeping into your nerves, clouding your judgment. You start reacting instead of thinking, flinching instead of responding, guarding instead of living. You feel numb, and yet every nerve ending is screaming, every emotion amplified into something almost unbearable. It is in this twilight between total collapse and forced normalcy that the next battle begins. 

Exhaustion is not just about being tired—it is a profound sense of depletion that often goes unnoticed. It is being drained in a way that cannot be seen. It is the moments when you smile out of obligation rather than genuine desire. It is found in the quiet sobs that escape you when you finally feel safe enough to let your guard down. Ultimately, exhaustion teaches you a humbling lesson: you are powerful enough to shake this thing. You are more than his addiction—you are more than the impact it has had on him and on you—even when he neglects to acknowledge it. This power may not always be visible or palpable, but I promise: it is there—hidden somewhere—lying beneath the struggle. 

It teaches you that your limits are never what you think. Just when you believe there is nothing left to give, something—hope, love, survival instinct—forces your feet forward, dragging your tired body across the battlefield one agonizing step at a time. And with every inch, you realize that mental, emotional, and physical fatigue are intertwined. You cannot separate them; they exist as one living, breathing entity determined to wear you down—and yet, you remain. 

I draw strength from my children and the lessons I’ve learned through each grueling step. Although I still carry the remnants of exhaustion—the fatigue that comes from witnessing the devastating effects of what this type of addiction has—will never control me.  

Despite the constant heartache, a fire still burns within me, refusing to die out. It’s the part of me that understands I can’t stop. I refuse to give up on him, even though I know I should. I must persevere and push past my breaking point—for the sake of my children, for the sake of my family, and for the sake of myself.  

I am their protector, and his desire is to be ours.  

And maybe that's what exhaustion truly is—the absence of everything that once sustained you, yet still finding a way to hang on. It’s a testament to the power I didn’t know I had within me. It may be silent now—but it’s there.  

Stay focused, for both of you. Freedom is not too far away. You must be more headstrong than most—remain calm and prepare for the next battle. You are his biggest fan, his most valuable teammate. So, get up, and keep playing—because both his life and your life—depend on it. 

Over the last six years I’ve realized there is something uniquely excruciating about emotions that refuse to be ignored yet are impossible to express. They strike when you least expect it, drowning you in a tsunami of sensations that leave you paralyzed. They hit without warning, like a tidal wave dragging you under, leaving your chest tight, your lungs shallow, your mind spinning. You thrash, you claw, you try to breathe—but the current is relentless. Every second stretches into a lifetime when your heart is being torn in every direction. You know that something has to give, yet no amount of reasoning or retreat can soften the weight of what you feel. 

And so, as one chapter of survival closes, another looms. The emotional devastation you’ve been trying to suppress will not wait politely for your energy to return. It is relentless, insistent, and unforgiving, and it waits for no one. Exhaustion is the foundation; emotional strain is the storm that builds upon it. And now, you prepare to face it, knowing that the skills honed in weariness—resilience, vigilance, courage—are the very tools you will need to navigate the tempest ahead. 

There is something uniquely excruciating about emotions that refuse to be ignored yet are impossible to express. They hit without warning, like a tidal wave dragging you under, leaving your chest tight, your lungs shallow, your mind spinning. You thrash, you claw, you try to breathe—but the current is relentless. Every second stretches into a lifetime when your heart is being torn in every direction. You know that something has to give, yet no amount of reasoning or retreat can soften the weight of what you feel. 

For the longest time, I convinced myself I had mastered control—that I could contain these emotions, manage them, bend them to my will. But living with someone addicted to heroin is like standing on shifting ice. No matter how steady you think you are, the cracks appear beneath your feet. Your armor corrodes. The floodgates open, and you are left standing in the wreckage of your own restraint. Joy becomes fleeting, every laugh shadowed by a gnawing ache, every smile hiding tears you cannot allow to fall. 

Anger seeps in—often not at him, but at yourself. Why did you let it get this far? Why couldn’t your love fix him, heal him, save him? Why aren’t your hands enough to hold what is breaking apart before your eyes? And yet, even when despair claws at the edges of your sanity, something refuses to let you walk away. That pull is stronger than reason, stronger than pride, stronger than the fragments of your own identity slipping through your fingers. You cling to it, because if you do not, the pieces of yourself you still recognize may vanish completely. 

Some days, it feels as if sorrow has built walls around me, walls so thick that the smallest emotion ricochets back like a hammer on stone. Anger, grief, fear, guilt—they all collide inside my chest, threatening to crush me. I have tried to hide, to present the illusion of strength, yet the cracks show, faint but unyielding. Every memory, every mistake, every whispered promise comes rushing back, demanding to be felt. You cannot run from it. You cannot negotiate. You simply exist within it, or you fracture. 

And then there is the quiet, almost imperceptible terror—the awareness that your emotions are not just yours. They are intertwined with someone else’s chaos. You feel their pain, their longing, their mistakes, and you carry it alongside your own. It seeps into your bones, thick and suffocating, reminding you that love here is not gentle—it is a battlefield, and you are always on the front line. 

The lessons are brutal. You learn that hiding from grief only sharpens it. That pretending strength preserves nothing. That the emotional overload is both the punishment and the teacher. When your mind screams for calm, and your heart demands chaos, you realize that surviving is about endurance, not perfection. There is no pause button, no neutral zone. Every step forward is a defiance, a declaration that even in this hurricane of feeling, you are refusing to dissolve entirely. 

One of the worst parts was the anger I felt—not directed at him—but at myself. I was frustrated for allowing myself to reach this point. I was upset that I could not simply fix everything, that my love was not enough to change his path or heal his wounds. Yet, even in the darkest hours, when every part of me wanted to hide and give up, something inside me refused to walk away. The emotional pull was so strong, and my hands were losing their grip—my fingers were slipping, I was losing myself—fading into a version that I barely knew. 

Each day is a battle between what I know is right—what I want to do—and what I am actually capable of. No one prepares you for the emotional massacre that comes from loving someone who is lost in their own self-destruction. No one warns you that your heart can break so many times that it feels like it has been fractured beyond repair—but it continues to beat—somehow.  

These emotions are like a hurricane; they crash against me one moment and retreat the next. They suck me in, pulling me under, only to leave me gasping for air, desperately trying to regain my footing. I have been avoiding them for so long, striving to keep my head above water, and attempting to paddle through the swampy water. But now—they seem impossible to ignore. I can no longer pretend to be the bulletproof, invulnerable girl I so often claim to be.  

I suppose this mindset stems from my belief that nothing last forever. This belief is a significant reason I continue to paddle, showing no visible signs of strain. You must understand that I was raised with the notion that toughing it out is the only way to truly live. Growing up, crying was never an option unless there was visible blood or broken bones. If there was no obvious pain—it was simply unacceptable to show it. My father taught my little sister and I to be strong—independent—and to always think things through. He instilled in me a harsh sense of self-reliance, one that urged me to take a deep breath and evaluate every situation logically. Impulsive decisions were not tolerated in our household, as they were viewed as a sign of weakness—an admission of defeat. Emotions did not dictate our actions—logic did. He taught us that sometimes it is better to remain silent, than to entertain the madness—as running our mouths would never solve any problems—only worsen them. 

Misery loves company—it is pointless to fall for the bait, as it only traps you further in the ways of the world. If you do, you will ultimately be the only one suffering. My father always told me that I was only hurting myself. (And honestly, how beneficial would that be for my outcome?) You cannot make it easy for them, nor can you make it easy for his addiction. Make heroin fight for its position in his life—just as you always have. He often reminded us that people would try to provoke us, and too often, we unfortunately fell for it. He said that if we could just remain silent long enough to listen and think it through—refusing to give them the satisfaction of winning—we could make calm, rational decisions—and never lose a fight.  

We were taught to stand up for what is right, even if we were the only ones in that corner. Not because we dared to be different, but simply because it was the right thing to do. His advice was like gold for me—as it still is today. That is why—despite feeling overwhelmed—I continue to find ways to push forward. In my heart, I know that because of him, I have the power to outlast it. I can beat this thing. So, I wait. I refuse to surrender. I refuse to accept defeat. And I pray. 

I have learned that the only way to truly heal is to give my emotions the space they need, allowing myself to experience them in their full intensity, no matter how uncomfortable it may be. The pain, the anger, and the heartbreak—they are integral parts of my journey. I no longer want to hide from them. It is time to stop pretending and start facing them head-on, because only then will I be able to search for the answers I need. 

Emotions here are living, breathing monsters. They shape your days, haunt your nights, and dictate your every decision in ways that are exhausting and exhilarating simultaneously. And yet, somewhere in the crushing weight, there is a spark of clarity—a painful, sharp understanding that facing these feelings fully is the only way to reclaim yourself. The anger, the sorrow, the guilt, the longing—they are not weaknesses; they are proof that you are still very much alive, still capable of passion, of connection, of transformation. 

For every moment of despair, there is an infinitesimal triumph—the ability to name your fear, to feel it, and to rise anyway. Not by ignoring it, not by pretending, but by existing fully in the storm, letting it wash over you, letting it teach you what you were never allowed to learn in calmer times: that you are unbreakable, not because life is easy, but because you survive when it is not. 

Are you there, Satan? It’s me, Morganne. 

I appreciate you dictating incident after incident, all within a twenty-four-hour span. You really are the perfect little referee, huh? You destroyed my morning yesterday, and again today—like it’s all just a game to you. My boys and I had plans this weekend. Plans we made with him. He’s only been out of jail for a few weeks, and already, you’ve got your filthy claws back in him. Now it’s not just my life you’re choking—it’s theirs too. 

I sit here pretending everything’s fine, biting my tongue, praying no one catches on. I’m hiding him in the bathroom for hours or shoving him in the car, driving like a bat out of hell, no note, no explanation, no reasoning. Just panic. Just survival. Every move feels like damage control, every silence feels like a lie, and every breath feels borrowed. 

You have no idea what this kind of stress does to a person. I walk on eggshells every second, terrified every time he locks that bathroom door for longer than forty-five seconds. My mind starts racing through plans A through G—how I’ll handle it if my kids get home early, or my mom wakes up, or one of them walks down the stairs at the wrong time. I’m constantly rehearsing chaos, preparing for both the best and the worst because when you live with addiction, the worst is never off the table. 

But times have changed, Satan. My kids aren’t little anymore—they know the signs. There’s no pretending our way out of it now. My babies are too damn smart, too emotionally aware, and their hearts are about to be shattered. JC swore to them—to them, not me—that he’d never touch it again. He didn’t even make it three weeks. Kids don’t understand relapse the way we do. They understand promises. And when promises break, something inside them breaks too. 

The worst part? I don’t even think he’s sorry. I don’t think he feels a thing. Sometimes I think he’ll be relieved when the truth comes out, like he can finally stop pretending. That’s how sick this is. He won’t have to hide it anymore, won’t have to care about the wreckage it leaves behind. And I can feel that truth in my bones, even when I don’t want to admit it. 

My anxiety is through the roof. I know I should talk to him about it when he sobers up, but those conversations never end well. They bring ugliness and chaos and words you can’t take back. I end up trying to force emotion into someone who’s running on empty, begging for him to care about the things that once meant everything to us. But maybe I’m trying to revive a ghost. Maybe the man I loved isn’t in there anymore. Maybe this time, it’s too far gone. 

And Satan, if that’s true—if he’s really gone—then what the hell am I still fighting for? 

You’ve done a hell of a job this round. My nerves are fried. My babies are about to be confused, heartbroken, and angry. And tonight, for the second night in a row, it’ll just be the three of us upstairs—while JC sleeps downstairs alone. That thought kills me. He’s been away from us for so long, and now he’s back but still unreachable, separated not by distance, but by heroin. By you. 

So congrats, Satan. You win again. You’ve managed to destroy the one thing I kept fighting for—the dream of a normal life. The fairytale future we whispered about in letters and jailhouse phone calls was just smoke. Lies. And deep down, I think I knew that. I’ve read this story before, and I know how it ends—it always ends the same way. 

So tonight, I’m calling it. You can have your damn trophy. I’m exhausted. I’m done strategizing. No plan B, no plan C. Just me, my babies, and the silence you leave behind. 

Per our usual exit,  

Morganne 

It is not easy, is it? To give every ounce of yourself to someone—only to watch them choose themselves, their cravings, their addictions over the life you’ve all built together. The betrayal stings. The anger is justified. The hurt is real. You’ve been carrying someone else’s chaos like it’s your own, and that weight is crushing. No one should live under this kind of constant emotional siege. 

Emotions don’t wait politely. They crash over you like tidal waves, impossible to ignore, impossible to control. You try to suppress them, bury them, pretend they don’t exist—but they always find a way to surface. Your heart and your mind pull you in opposite directions, dragging you through a sea of conflict you can’t swim out of. You feel everything intensely, yet at the same time, you’ve gone numb to the things that used to make life feel alive. That paradox cuts deeper than anything else. 

I’ve learned to use my emotions as survival tools. I’ve mastered compartmentalization, activating and shutting down feelings at will. But even mastery has limits. No matter how controlled I am, the reminders always sneak in—haunting echoes of what I’ve endured, and warnings of what’s still ahead. And when they hit, it’s like someone ripped the floor from under me and left me dangling over nothing, my soul exposed. 

Summer should be a simple joy, a time to float in water and let sunlight warm your skin. But for five years, it’s been stolen from me. I beg him to rent a boat, to take us swimming, to do anything that feels alive. Each season ends in disappointment, each memory a reminder of what addiction robs. And even when he’s physically present, he isn’t there. The abscesses, the marks, the shame—they shadow every moment, turning potential joy into quiet sorrow. I see the good in him, the part that wants to change, and I grieve for both of us. 

Showing unconditional anything—love, patience, forgiveness—is both a gift and a curse. There are moments I wish I could shut it all off, numb myself completely. But then I realize: the very things that tear me apart also remind me of who I still am. Of what I am capable of feeling. My emotions are raw and real, and I refuse to apologize for them. They are proof I am alive, proof I can still care when the world feels impossible. 

Amid this storm, I am found—not in spite of my emotions, but because of them. They are the compass pointing back to myself, the reminder that even in chaos, I am still whole, still capable of fighting. To feel—to really feel—is to be human, with all the joy, the heartbreak, and the fire that comes with it. 

You’ve been fighting for someone who cannot yet fight for themselves, and it will test every limit of your endurance. But you cannot let their demons swallow you too. You have power, you have resilience, and you have the right to protect your own heart. As my father always said: cry until it pours, let it out, and then wash your hands of it. This storm is temporary. Your strength is permanent. There’s more life ahead, more love to give, and more power to reclaim. 

You are already doing it. Every hour you navigate this chaos, every moment you hold the line, every breath you take despite exhaustion—these are victories. This love, this relentless commitment, is proof of your courage. And yes, the destruction around you is relentless, but it does not define you. You can rescue yourself. You can heal. You can rebuild. You are greater than the chaos around you. 

Sometimes it will feel like drowning. The anxiety, the sleepless nights, the crushing disappointment—they try to convince you that you are failing. But glance back. Look at the miles you’ve survived. You’ve climbed mountains while carrying others’ burdens, and you are still standing. Let instinct guide you, let faith steady you. 

You must step back sometimes and see what you’ve endured. Addiction wears heavy—it disguises itself as love, loyalty, desperation. But even through its grip, you’ve kept yourself intact. You are essential. Not just to those you love, but to yourself. Your well-being matters. Your heart matters. Your peace matters. 

You are only defined by who you are at your core—the woman behind the chaos, the one who refuses to give up. Let that love fill the spaces that have long been neglected. Pause. Recharge. Protect yourself. You are essential. Vital. You deserve this care, this honor, this moment. 

In the eye of the storm, it is easy to forget that you are worthy of the same amount of love, compassion, and devotion that you offer to others. It is tempting to get caught right in the middle, trying to resolve every issue for everyone else, but that constant pressure can be a slow drain on your well-being. You must prove yourself worthy—not as a fixer of broken situations, but as a woman who deserves the same respect that she extends towards this relationship, every single day—a woman who deserves to be honored in her own right.  

It is necessary to regroup after an incident; to recharge your batteries. This is a crucial part of regaining your confidence in its entirety—an essential component—at that. Your needs, your feelings, and your well-being are essential—and vital to your overall health, both physically and mentally. Now is the time to honor yourself in the same way you honor others. The love you give to everyone around you should be the same love you offer to yourself. 

Are you there, Satan? It’s me, Morganne 

Well, it’s Valentine’s Day. Not that it means a damn thing, because we both know better. We’ve been up for two hours, and he hasn’t even noticed. Just once, I’d love to wake up on a day like this to flowers, a note, hell—even a “Happy Valentine’s Day” would do. I don’t get Mother’s Day cards or birthday cards either. Maybe it’s just a man thing. (At least that’s what I tell myself.) But whatever. It’s irrelevant now. I’ll never change it. 

Yesterday was the third time he’s hurt me. Third. You’d think I’d be angry, but I’m not. It’s more like a slow ache that never leaves. When he’s high, it’s like he sees red. His pupils go black, his jaw locks, and something in him flips. Sometimes I can’t help myself—I poke at the wound, pick the fight, because his high makes me insane. One thing leads to another, and he explodes. He has no right to touch me like that, but I still end up blaming myself for talking too much, pushing too hard. Then I sit there in disbelief, staring at this sweet, gentle man who once couldn’t even swat a fly—and I can’t reconcile him with the monster in front of me. 

The first time it happened, he scared himself. I saw it in his eyes. I’ll never forget it. We were on our way to court, arguing over God knows what. Then suddenly, he snapped. His face went blank, then dark—like something else took over. And now, every time it happens, it’s the same. His rage hits like lightning. He flinches like he might tear my face off, his breath shaking the air between us. For ten seconds, I don’t exist. Then, as fast as it comes, it’s gone. He goes hollow—eyes empty, voice flat. “Get up. Now.” And the way he says it… you feel it in your bones. I’ve never dared test what happens if I don’t. 

My kids have started noticing more. I used to think I was hiding it well, but kids always know. They see the needle caps. (Not everywhere, but enough to matter.) The bathroom floor. The hallway. One by the washer last week. It’s not just disgusting—it’s dangerous. And my youngest—God, the way he looks at me. Like he’s trying to understand how the woman who raised him got trapped in something so ugly. He doesn’t say much. He just glares, then walks away. That silence hurts worse than anything. 

He’s only twelve. Twelve. Too young to understand addiction, yet old enough to know this isn’t right. He’s patient, forgiving, way too wise for his age. He loves JC like a dad. Wants him to change, to be the man he remembers before jail. He wants someone he can look up to again. And watching him hope for something that may never happen—it’s breaking me from the inside out. That kind of hope should belong to children, not survivors. 

My oldest, though… he’s different. He’s a fighter. He has this switch, this instinct to protect. He can go from calm to chaos in seconds if he thinks someone’s hurting me. He’ll step right into the fire without hesitation. He’s my Aries—headstrong, impulsive, fearless. And I hate that he’s had to grow into that role. That he’s had to learn how to read danger in my tone or body language. No child should know how to gauge if their mother’s safe in her own home. 

My boys—they’re perfect in their own ways. But God, it’s hard. They just want him back. They want peace. They want their home to stop feeling like a battlefield. They don’t even want better anymore—they just want normal. 

And with that, Satan, you’ve won again. You’ve stripped away what little peace I had left. I can feel myself getting weaker with every battle, every hit, every hollow apology. But don’t get too comfortable, because I’m not done. Not by a long shot. 

Every ounce of pain, every tear, every scar—it’s all tinder. One day, I’ll use it to burn through everything you built. You might think you’re winning these little moments, but I’m not the same woman I was when this started. I’ve been forged in this hell. I’m stronger now. You can take my peace, my sleep, my sanity—but not my fire. 

And I’ll tell you something else: I’m not afraid of you anymore. I’ve looked you dead in the eye and lived to write about it. You can’t scare me with your silence, your rage, your manipulation. You can’t keep me small. I’ll keep showing up every damn day—for my kids, for myself, for the woman I refuse to lose. 

So go ahead, Satan. Keep tempting. Keep pulling. Keep trying to make me forget who I am. But here’s the truth: I already know how this story ends, and it’s not your win—it’s mine. 

Morganne 

Essential is the foundation. The solid core that keeps you from shattering when the weight of the world is on your shoulders. It is the quiet engine that keeps you moving when every muscle begs you to collapse, the invisible thread that pulls you upright when chaos is trying to drag you down. You don’t always notice it—until it is tested, until you are pushed to the edge, and there is nothing left but that voiceless power inside. 

Essential is not the flash, the drama, or the moments everyone notices. It is the hours when the lights go out, when the house is quiet, when the world is sleeping—and you are left with nothing but yourself. It doesn’t scream, demand, or parade itself around. It waits. It lingers. And when you recognize it, you realize that real strength isn’t in the bright, loud victories—but in standing firm when no one is watching, holding steady, and keeping the ground beneath your feet intact. 

Being essential means understanding what truly matters: your worth, the roles of others in your life, and how deeply interconnected your existence is with those you love. It means seeing both the beauty and the beast within yourself and still refusing to surrender the core of who you are. When I let go of the performance—the front I put on for everyone else—I discovered that even if parts of me fractured, there were still fragments worth fighting for. And in those fragments, I found the people who stood beside me: the unsung pillars that kept me grounded when the storm tried to pull me under. 

Being essential doesn’t mean being perfect. It means being real, unapologetically. It means letting go of what you cannot control—the chaos, the addiction, the unpredictability—and holding space for what you can control: yourself, your resilience, your boundaries. Sometimes, God keeps certain answers hidden—not to punish, but to protect hearts and preserve sanity. Sometimes, simply being present, holding your spot, and staying steady for yourself—and for those who rely on you—is the most essential act of all. 

You are enough. Broken, beautiful, messy, resilient—enough. Recognizing that allows you to stand taller, to write the next chapter of your life with intention, not fear. The storm will rage. The waves will batter you. But when you are essential, you stand in the eye of it all, knowing the storm will pass—and when it does, you will be the one still standing, still whole, still unshaken. 

But even the strongest foundation can feel the cracks. Essential does not make life painless—it makes you endure it. And sometimes, enduring means staring directly into the void of neglect. Essential is knowing your worth, but neglect is the test of it. It is the darkness that presses against the walls you’ve built, the silence that screams at you when the person you love cannot—or will not—meet you halfway. 

This is the moment where Essential meets reality. It meets the empty bathroom doors, the missed promises, the emotional absence that cuts deeper than any physical blow. You hold yourself together because of what is essential, but the neglect of those you love threatens to erode even that solid core. Numbness creeps in where love should be reciprocated, and the need for connection becomes almost unbearable. It is here, in the quiet and in the ache, that you realize just how vital the foundation you’ve built truly is—and how fragile it feels when neglected. 

“You want the little things society has falsely taught you are essential for happiness. You want that.” (de Mello) 

Chapter 5: 

N is for neglect, numbness, and need 

Psalms 1:1-2 (King James Version) 

Neglect—such a powerful word. It instantly evokes discomfort, almost giving you goosebumps. Whether it’s the neglect of an animal, a child, a teenager, or a spouse—it carries a wicked kind of weight, one that stirs something unsettling deep inside you, sending a chill down your spine. The Oxford Dictionary lists its synonyms as failure to provide for, abandoned, mistreated, forsaken, overlooked, ignored, forgotten. Just reading those words aloud makes my stomach twist, filling my heart with an ache that’s both heavy and hollow. 

Neglect isn’t just about being ignored or having your needs brushed aside—it’s the silent, constant erosion of your existence. It’s the feeling of being slowly erased, one unnoticed moment at a time. For those who have endured abuse or mistreatment, that feeling doesn’t simply fade; it lingers, like smoke that never clears. It’s the neglect of your humanity, your worth, your right to exist and be seen. It’s loving someone so deeply that their absence—emotional or otherwise—becomes a shadow that consumes you.

And the worst part? Your replacement isn’t another person—it’s something you could never compete with. Your rival is a living, breathing monster, one that has taken residence in the veins of the person you love. You can’t fight it. You can only watch, helplessly, as it devours the connection you once had. So you brace yourself. You take a deep breath and learn to live with the ache of being neglected, because, more often than not, it’s not a pain that’s going away anytime soon. 

The deepest kind of neglect isn’t physical—it’s emotional. It’s when your heart cries out for love, for recognition, for some trace of compassion, only to be met with indifference and disappointment. You start to wonder if you’re even worthy of love at all. Maybe all the cruel things he’s said are true. Maybe it’s your fault that things have fallen apart. Maybe—just maybe—you really are as crazy as he claims. It’s like standing in a crowded room, screaming for someone to notice you, and everyone looks straight through you. That’s what neglect feels like. 

It’s like being thrown overboard with an anchor tied around your ankle—sinking fast, as he drives the boat right over you. The more you fight to be seen, the further you drown. You fight for the love you deserve, for a sliver of the attention you crave, but the only thing that greets you is emptiness. You start asking yourself the same painful questions every night: Does he even see me? Does he know how hard I’m fighting for us? Why do I sit alone while he spends the night in the bathroom—or passed out on the couch? Don’t I deserve at least a few moments of connection, even with the addiction between us? You tell yourself you do—but the silence makes you doubt it. And somewhere along the way, you start to disintegrate, piece by piece, until you’re unsure what’s left of you at all. 

Neglect forces you to build walls. You create a shield so strong that nothing can penetrate it, because if nothing can touch you, nothing can hurt you. You convince yourself that numbness is safer—that it’s better to feel nothing at all than to keep bleeding over someone who can’t meet you halfway. But numbness becomes its own kind of torture. You lose yourself in the quiet. You forget what joy feels like. You start existing instead of living, and you call that survival. But even that survival costs you. Because when the heart stops reaching, it also stops receiving. 

And yet—the need never disappears. That ache to be seen, to be loved, to matter—it tugs at you constantly. You search for it in people, in validation, in distractions, hoping something will fill the void. But the truth is, no one else can heal what’s missing inside of you. You want reassurance, someone to tell you that you’re enough. But when those needs go unmet, they grow louder, like a heartbeat that won’t quiet down. And that’s the thing about need—it’s not weakness. It’s proof you’re still alive. 

At first, you tell yourself you can handle it. That you’re strong enough to be untouched by neglect. But after a while, you realize it’s a lie you’ve been feeding yourself out of pride. Because deep down, you know the truth: we all need someone. We all crave connection. We were built to love and be loved—to see and be seen. And no one can survive the neglect of their soul forever. 

It’s hard, isn’t it? To admit that you feel unworthy of his time—that you’ve started to believe you don’t matter? But this is part of the process. This is what healing looks like when you stop pretending you’re okay. It’s raw and ugly and real. It’s easy to blame yourself, to think maybe you didn’t love enough or do enough, but none of us deserve neglect. None of us deserve to feel like second place to a needle. And yes—sometimes that’s exactly where we are. But it’s not permanent. It’s not the end of your story. 

We keep giving, keep fighting, keep hoping—but the emptiness still expands. And in that space, we start to lose pieces of who we are. But maybe, just maybe, that’s where we also begin to rebuild. Because even though neglect can hollow you out, it also forces you to confront what’s left. And what’s left is the part of you that still believes in love, even when it’s been bruised beyond recognition. 

We become numb not because we want to—but because we have to. Because sometimes the only way to survive the storm is to let the wind pass through you. But numbness isn’t forever. It’s just the pause between who you were and who you’re becoming. 

You are not defined by neglect. You are not the leftover pieces he couldn’t destroy. You are the one who survived it. The one who kept showing up—for yourself, for your purpose, for your future. Each step forward, no matter how small, is defiance. It’s proof that you’re still here. Still healing. Still whole, even in the places that ache. 

Keep going. You’re doing better than you think. 

Are You There, Satan? It’s Me, Morganne 

I guess I was hoping you’d give me a few months of freedom, since he just got home. A little peace of mind before you came crawling back. I honestly thought maybe you’d have the decency to be embarrassed — to hide your face for a while — but of course, I was wrong. Here we are again, you running the entire show, standing on my neck, laughing while I struggle to breathe. It’s obvious you already hold the reins — on him, on his thoughts, on every fragile piece of what’s left of us. 

Instead of building a family, my priorities now begin and end with you. My days don’t even function without your presence. You’ve made sure of that. 

And it doesn’t take long for you to make yourself at home, does it? You slither into the trunk of the car, into the pouch in his pocket, into at least three suitcases. You hide in an empty sweet tea bottle under the sink — like you really think no one would look there — and you fill the storage unit, the bags in the garage, the corners of my sanity. It’s exhausting, keeping up with you. It’s humiliating. 

My favorite days lately — and I say that with venom — are when you come on too strong, when you catch him off guard and he leaves the bathroom door unlocked. He’s slumped over, half-conscious, drool pooling under his cheek, the needle still in his hand, both caps rolling across the tile like tiny bullets. Or when I’m doing laundry and walking back to the bedroom, my arms full, a family member following behind me, and two orange caps slip out of a pair of joggers. My stomach drops. I pray they don’t hit the floor before I can scoop them up. 

And then there are the perfectly timed overdoses — thirty minutes before my kids get off the school bus. Head hanging over the sink. Pants halfway down. Spoon singed on the counter. He only wakes up when someone accidentally walks in on him. Every time, I feel my blood start to boil and my chest tighten like it’s about to crack open. 

The thoughts that race through my head in those moments are unimaginable. I can feel the heat rise under my skin, my heart pounding, tears burning the backs of my eyes. The other day, I had to lift my hands to my head, pretending to adjust a hairclip, just to block my youngest son and his friend from seeing what was behind me — his father, unconscious again. My son knew instantly. Without a word, he rushed his friend to his room, embarrassed, ashamed, heartbroken. 

And then there was the night JC thought he dropped a flashlight behind the TV. He was so high he crawled headfirst into the carpet and passed out back there, snoring. My mom walked down the stairs, took one look at him, then looked at me. Just shook her head. 

She shouldn’t have to see this. She wasn’t built for this kind of heartbreak. She deserves peace under her own roof — but I’ve dragged her into the chaos with me. It’s unfair. Selfish. She’s confused, she doesn’t understand addiction, and yet she stands by me anyway. A soldier in the trenches of a war she never signed up for. She refuses to let this thing pull me under too. And as much as I wish I could take away her pain, the truth is, I need her. God, I need her more than she’ll ever know. She is the greatest thing in my life — in all our lives. 

The stress in these moments is unmeasurable. His eyes roll back in his head, mouth gaped open, body swaying, sometimes for hours. It’s out of control. And the worst part? When I finally talk to him after he wakes, he looks at me like I’m crazy. Like I’m lying. Like I imagined the whole thing. 

Over the past year, my oldest has talked to me at least twenty times about how bad JC’s gotten. He’s called JC himself — crying, begging, pleading for him to stop before he dies. He tells him how much he needs him, how much he loves him, that he can’t lose another person he loves to this drug. Sometimes he wakes in the middle of the night, sweating and crying, haunted by nightmares of losing him. And every time, he comes to me, asking me to talk to him again. 

This is the kind of weight no child should ever carry. It’s too heavy for anyone, let alone a teenager. And yet it doesn’t seem to faze JC at all. He doesn’t slow down. He doesn’t use less. Even when the kids are right in the next room, fully aware of what’s happening behind that locked door. 

I don’t know how to get through to him — or maybe I do, and I just can’t stomach hearing his answer. It’s bad, Satan. So bad. I need you to stop torturing my family. Stop torturing my boys. They’ve suffered enough for a lifetime. 

(God, please — show JC a flicker of hope somewhere deep inside himself. Help him see the light, if not for me, then for them. Amen.) 

Until next time, Satan. 

Morganne 

Neglect doesn’t always look like bruises. It doesn’t always look like empty refrigerators, or someone curled up in a corner, waiting to be noticed. No—neglect is sneakier than that. It’s marked by silent birthdays, unanswered texts, and the slow realization that the person sitting beside you hasn’t really seen you in months. It’s the kind of absence that exists even when they’re still in the room. 

The power of neglect in a heroin addict is, by far, the most ruthless villain of them all. It starts as small things—missed plans, forgotten tasks, the blank stare that tells you his mind is already somewhere else. Then it grows teeth. It devours conversation, laughter, intimacy—until all that’s left between you is static. You start to wonder if you’re invisible, or if maybe invisibility would hurt less than being half-seen. 

Neglect doesn’t just break you down—it reshapes you. The numbness that comes next is not weakness; it’s armor. It’s your body’s last line of defense, wrapping you in quiet just so you can survive the noise of his absence. You don’t choose numbness—it chooses you. And though it saves you from falling apart, it steals the warmth from your chest while it’s at it. 

People won’t understand why you stay. They’ll call you blind, codependent, broken. But they don’t see what it’s like to hold the hand of the person who once made you feel infinite and watch that same hand shake, twitch, reach for the poison that steals them away. They don’t know what it’s like to love someone who’s physically alive but emotionally gone. You stay because you see who they were before the drug took the wheel, because you keep hoping you’ll catch a flicker of that version again. That’s not weakness—that’s devotion, the kind that burns like religion. 

Still—you’re allowed to rest. You’re allowed to unclench your jaw, drop the weight from your shoulders, and let someone else hold the world for a minute. Your strength isn’t in how much you survive, but in the fact that even in hell, you still know how to love. 

Trauma isn’t your fault. But yes—it leaves fingerprints. You’ll trace them in quiet moments and mistake them for flaws, but they’re proof you made it through something most people couldn’t even look at. Every small step you take forward is a rebellion. Every time you get up, every breath you take in defiance of despair—that’s you, choosing life again. 

And then—somewhere between numbness and survival—need starts whispering. 

It’s not loud at first. It shows up in the hollow places, the quiet moments when you realize you’ve been living half-alive. It’s that ache for something real—to be seen, held, understood. It’s the reminder that you still want, still hope, still need. 

Numbness—in its truest form—is the absence of everything. It is a place where the emotions you once felt, whether good or bad, seem to vanish, into thin air. It feels as though your soul has vacated, leaving your body behind to perform tasks with no sense of urgency or desire. The silence becomes too loud, and the noise becomes unbearable. It is as if you are stuck in a vacuum, cut off from everything that once felt real. Initially, numbness can feel like a period of relief. It is an escape from the pain that rarely subsides, the kind of pain that breaks you down and wears you out. You convince yourself that this sense of nothingness is the answer to your prayers, precisely what you need, believing it will protect you, and shield you from the thunderstorm. But soon, you realize that it is worse than before—a prison guarded by the drug itself—with no doors or windows—and no way to escape from its torture. 

Numbness is often mistaken for weakness, but in truth, it’s one of the body’s fiercest defense tactics. It’s the thick, invisible shield we put up to protect ourselves from the suffocating, yet intoxicating, responsibilities that come with loving an addict. It’s the awkward stillness that fills the air, the hollow echo that lingers when chaos finally quiets. It’s as if your heart reaches up and slides noise-canceling headphones over your soul, giving you a brief timeout from the never-ending noise. For a moment, everything goes still—too still—and the silence feels like both mercy and punishment. 

When you’ve endured too much and felt too deeply, your mind eventually steps in and says, enough. It shuts down certain circuits—not to harm you, but to save you. It knows you’d never willingly flip that switch on your own, so it does it for you. That’s not weakness; that’s survival. It’s your body giving you permission to stop running, to rest, to breathe. You’re placed on temporary autopilot, just long enough to get your bearings—to regroup, gather the scattered pieces of yourself, and line your heart back up with the tracks. It’s a pause between storms, a moment to exist without the constant clatter of emotional freight dragging behind you. 

Numbness, like every stage of healing, is temporary. It’s not a life sentence—it’s a signal. It’s your body whispering, I need a break. I need time to recover. And you do. You’ve earned the right to step back, to disconnect, to reprogram the parts of you that forgot how to rest. The fear that it’ll last forever will creep in, sure—it always does. You’ll ask yourself if laughter will ever sound real again, if your chest will ever feel light instead of caved in, if you’ll ever stop pretending to be okay. That’s the hardest part—the pretending. But even while the weight presses down, even when your heart feels iced over, you still rise. You wash your face, you make the coffee, you brace for another day. Because that’s what survivors do, even when they can’t feel a damn thing. 

Maybe tomorrow will be different. Maybe it won’t. But one day, the echoes will quiet, and you’ll start to feel the faint hum of life again. You’ll remember that recovery isn’t a race—it’s a rhythm. You get to move at your own pace, take your own pauses, rewrite your own rules. And somewhere in that slow unfurling, you’ll begin to feel again. You’ll learn to coexist with the ache instead of fighting it. 

Hope and faith might still feel like fairy tales at first—fragile, far-fetched things—but don’t let that stop you from reaching for them anyway. After your timeout, when the freeze begins to thaw, you’ll realize that you were never broken beyond repair. You were simply protecting what was left. Numbness wasn’t the enemy—it was the guard at the gate, holding you together until you were ready to come home to yourself again. 

Are You There, Satan? It’s Me, Morganne 

My brain and my heart are no longer on speaking terms—they’re beating at two entirely different wavelengths. I know I’m not perfect. I’m human, and humans screw up. Sometimes those mistakes are irreversible. Even when two people try to hold on, to give it one more desperate shot, some hearts just aren’t big enough—or strong-minded enough—to truly forgive. Sometimes a relationship can’t mend itself back into what it once was. When one person’s heart isn’t right with God, insecurity takes over, twisting everything pure into something vengeful, spiteful, and cold. Mercy disappears. Compassion evaporates. What’s left is a battlefield where love once lived. 

There’s no reasoning left. No calm. It goes from zero to four hundred in seconds flat. Every tiny disagreement turns into a full-blown explosion, escalating past any version of crazy you’ve ever seen. The words come out sharp and venomous, the kind that can’t be unsaid. You stand there in shock, watching the person you love turn into something almost inhuman. And you already know that the next fight—the next explosion—will be worse than this one. It always is. 

It got to the point where the smallest thing could set him off. I’d go downstairs for a few minutes—to write, to breathe—and you’d think I’d committed a crime. He’d accuse, taunt, and belittle me, twisting everything until I didn’t even recognize myself. He called me every name he could conjure, his voice dripping with rage. Said I’d disrespected him beyond belief. Said I was unacceptable. His anger filled every inch of that room until I couldn’t breathe. Then came the threats. The control. The command to lie down. 

So here I lay—alone—with only my thoughts for company. I don’t know what to do with this kind of pain, this kind of confusion. My body is still, but my mind is screaming. And just when my eyes start to close, when I almost forget how afraid I am, he stomps out of the bedroom again. The floor shakes. My heart drops. 

No worries, Satan. Nothing new here. He’s just back in the bathroom—your favorite place to win. 

—Morganne 

It is difficult to relive moments of weakness, and even harder to admit them. 

 If you’ve ever walked in my shoes—or anywhere close—you’ll understand the emotions I’m describing: confusion, isolation, detachment. It’s like the world keeps happening around you, but you’re somehow not there for it. You’re standing still while everyone else moves faster and faster, and no one slows down long enough to see you. You’re stuck in an invisible tube, buried deep beneath the earth, watching everything spin and grow and thrive without you. And still, part of you clings to this quiet hope that maybe—just maybe—the world will pause long enough for you to catch up. But that’s a fairytale we tell ourselves to avoid sinking even deeper into the dark. 

I didn’t write this book to sugarcoat anything—not for you, and not for me. The truth is, the rest of the world doesn’t stop. It keeps striving, keeps building, keeps loving, while you’re here trying to survive something invisible. Isolation might feel like protection, but it’s a trap. It’s an unbreakable wall you build to keep pain out, but in doing so, you keep everything else out too. The joy, the hope, the love—they start to feel foreign. Distant. Unreal. 

Numbness is its own kind of paralysis—a strange mix of survival and surrender. It’s not the absence of emotion; it’s your body and mind creating armor when the world becomes too heavy to carry. You start using numbness as a shield from the chaos, not realizing that the longer you wear it, the more you lose touch with yourself. You move through your days like a ghost, heart racing but body refusing to feel, going through the motions of living while quietly fading in the background. 

But even numbness has an expiration date. One day, the world will feel alive again. Color will return to the sky. Music will sound like something other than noise. You’ll reconnect—with your emotions, your spirit, your people. The first step is to let yourself grieve what’s been lost. The second is to practice patience with yourself as you find your way back. 

There comes a point when the silence becomes too loud to ignore—when even the numbness starts to ache. You catch yourself staring at a wall, at nothing in particular, and suddenly you feel it—this dull, unfamiliar throb somewhere deep inside your chest. It’s not quite hope, not yet. It’s something smaller, something quieter. Maybe it’s the tiniest reminder that you’re still here, that you’ve made it through every single day you thought would break you. The numbness was never meant to destroy you—it was your body’s way of saying, I’m still fighting, just differently now. 

And then, somewhere in that half-light between breaking and rebuilding, you realize you miss yourself. You miss the way laughter used to sound when it came from your belly, the way sunlight used to feel like it was kissing your skin instead of burning it. You start craving realness again—the kind that doesn’t apologize for its pain. Maybe healing doesn’t look like you thought it would. Maybe it’s not fireworks or grand awakenings. Maybe it’s just the quiet decision to start feeling again, even if it hurts like hell at first. 

The numbness may feel like pressure on your chest, but it cannot suffocate you unless you allow it to. You are more than emptiness—you are more than pain... 

The numbness may feel like pressure on your chest, but it can’t suffocate you unless you let it. You are not the emptiness. You are not the pain. You are the pulse underneath it—the soft, steady beat that has never stopped, even when everything else did. One day soon, you’ll feel again. You’ll laugh for real. You’ll breathe without fear. 

Hold on to that, please. 

Because when the numbness starts to lift, what rises to the surface first are the needs you buried to survive. The parts of you that went quiet while you were just trying to make it through the chaos—they start whispering again. And suddenly, you remember what it feels like to want something. To crave comfort, connection, and truth. It’s jarring at first, realizing how much you’ve denied yourself just to keep standing. 

Needs—can they ever be completely satisfied? Some days it doesn’t feel that way. We all have them: needs that define us, drive us, and stretch us past what we thought we could endure. But the hardest part isn’t having needs—it’s admitting them. It’s saying out loud, I can’t do this alone. 

We’re conditioned to believe that needing someone makes us weak. That independence is strength and vulnerability is something to be ashamed of. So we push our needs down, bury them under pride and exhaustion, pretending we’re fine. But beneath all that pretending, we’re still human—and humans are wired to need. 

We need love. We need connection. We need someone to look at us and say, I see you. You still matter. We need safety, forgiveness, and one more chance to believe that good things can still happen. The problem is—we start confusing “need” with “desperation.” But need is not desperation. Need is the pulse that reminds us we’re alive. It’s the body’s way of saying, please don’t give up yet. 

For me, admitting my needs has been one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. Because it means facing the truth that I’m not different, not unbreakable, not in control of everything. It means saying, I need him. I need my kids to be okay. I need my mother’s strength when mine runs dry. It’s humbling—and it hurts like hell—especially when the person you need most is the one least capable of showing up. 

There’s a strange kind of power in owning your needs, though. It’s a reclaiming. It’s you, saying, I matter too. The moment you stop apologizing for needing love, or time, or peace, is the moment you start to rebuild. Brick by brick. Layer by layer. 

Need doesn’t make you weak—it makes you real. It’s what connects us, keeps us reaching for one another, and gives us the courage to keep going when everything around us is falling apart. The truth is, we all need something. And that’s not shameful—it’s human. 

Sometimes, we heal by giving what we once begged for. By helping others, we remember that we still have something left to offer. That’s the quiet redemption of need—it doesn’t end with taking; it transforms into giving. 

Your needs don’t define your weakness; they define your humanity. They mean you’re still capable of feeling, of wanting, of hoping. And in a world that’s tried to numb you to everything, that’s the strongest thing of all. 

Are you there, Satan? It’s me, Morganne 

I can’t really decide anymore. Are you here to torture him? Or is it mainly for me? It’s not in my nature to fight for my place in a relationship. Is that the fun part for you? Because that’s what it feels like—like I’m fighting just to stay afloat.  

I’m spinning in circles—back and forth, upside down, round and round—until I can’t even tell which way is up anymore. It’s mental whiplash just trying to keep up with it all. When a relationship is steady, when both people have their feet planted firmly on solid ground, there’s less room for chaos. If both partners are genuinely working on themselves—for each other—if they’re moving in sync, as one team, there shouldn’t be this constant need to prove your worth, your position, your place. But here’s the thing: you’re not a person. Even though you feel like one—bigger than life, louder than reason—you’re not. 

So if you could do me a favor and stay out of my relationship—the emotional side—I’d appreciate it. I’m not fighting another woman. I’m fighting a fucking drug. And it’s unfair. Unfair to me, unfair to us. 

But I’ll give you this—you are the hardest fight I’ve ever fought. I can give it my entire heart, every ounce I have left, and still lose. And if that happens, I won’t just lose him—I’ll lose myself. My worth. My dignity. My sense of who I am. And I don’t know if I’ll ever recover from that. 

Sometimes, I think walking away would be easier. Cry until I puke, wash my hands, walk away, and maybe save what’s left of me and my kids. Sometimes I feel like a zombie—coexisting in a world I can’t quite touch. 

But then I remember who we’re talking about. He’s so much more than the pain, the fear, the chaos. He’s more than the needle, more than the disease. This suffering isn’t something he chooses—you are not something he chooses. 

One day, I’ll remember why I didn’t forfeit. Why I stayed. Why I kept fighting. One day, this chaos will just be a bad dream. Until then, I have to remember how to exhale—how to breathe through the pain. 

Because he’s worth the fight. He’s flawed, imperfect, broken—but he loves me. He loves my children. And that’s enough for me to keep standing, even when it feels impossible. 

So, Satan, I’m not going anywhere. Not today. Not ever. 

—Morganne 

Need is a desperation that creeps up behind you—gripping your shoulders and refusing to let go. It’s quiet but suffocating, a slow burn that settles in your chest and refuses to move. It sneaks into the still moments of the night, filling the empty spaces where hope used to live. It’s not just a want—it’s a hunger. A hollow ache that no amount of reassurance can touch. This kind of need doesn’t come from an external lack; it comes from deep within—from that primal part of you that just wants to be seen, held, understood. It’s the need for love when love feels impossible. The need for understanding when you’ve already said all the words. It’s the desperate reaching for connection when all you can grasp is air. 

When you’ve given everything you have—every ounce of fight, every piece of your heart—and it’s still not enough, you’re left standing in the wreckage, reaching for something that no longer reaches back. You find yourself grasping for the one thing that once made you feel whole, watching it slip through your fingers no matter how tightly you hold on. The need becomes a ghost—it haunts the silence, whispers in the dark, reminds you of what’s missing. It’s relentless. And it doesn’t care how tired you are. 

Need is one of the most fundamental human experiences. It’s what drives us to love, to create, to fight, to survive. But in the world of addiction, that same instinct mutates into something darker. It becomes desperate. It becomes dangerous. It stops being about survival—it’s about getting through the next hour, the next high, the next fix. Their needs drown out yours. Their craving for the drug screams louder than your begging ever could. Their thirst for the high outweighs their thirst for life. And the hardest part to swallow is this: their need for the drug will almost always overpower their need for you. You start questioning your worth—your love, your fight, your loyalty. None of it seems to matter. But hear me—it isn’t you. It never was. 

Eventually, the lines blur. You start to feel like you’re the one who needs them. The codependency seeps in, slow and poisonous, convincing you that you can’t breathe without them. You tell yourself they’ll die without you—and maybe they will. But maybe, piece by piece, you will too. Because every time you sacrifice your own peace to save them, you lose a little more of yourself. Your needs become a whisper. Your joy fades into memory. Your sense of self gets buried beneath their chaos. And before you know it, you can’t tell where they end and you begin. 

But here’s the truth I had to choke down before I could finally understand it: needing others isn’t weakness—it’s human. For so long, I thought needing meant failing, that asking for help meant I wasn’t strong enough. But I was wrong. Needing is what connects us. It’s what keeps us alive. It’s what keeps us fighting for love, even when love hurts like hell. There is no shame in saying, I can’t do this alone. There’s no weakness in needing help, comfort, or understanding. There’s power in admitting that you’re breaking. There’s freedom in saying, I need more than this. 

There are people who will understand you, who will love you without conditions, and who will hold space for your broken pieces without flinching. You are not too much. You are not unworthy. Your needs are not a burden—they are proof that you’re still alive, still fighting, still human. Don’t silence them. Don’t shrink for anyone. Whether you need love, healing, support, or a way out—it’s all valid. You don’t have to carry it all alone anymore. You’ve carried enough. 

Helping those in need is not charity. It’s humanity.” (Naskar)  

Chapter 6: 

I is for instinctual, impulsive, and intolerable 

Proverbs 14:17-18 (King James Version) 

There are moments in life when instinct is all you’ve got left to guide you—moments when you don’t have time to think, to analyze, or to rationalize. When you can’t afford to. You’re left with nothing but your impulses—the raw, unfiltered reactions your body throws out in a desperate attempt to survive. Instinct doesn’t wait for permission. It doesn’t ask if it’s convenient. It just takes over. 

When you love someone addicted to heroin, instinct becomes both your lifeline and your curse. It saves you and destroys you in the same breath. It’s what makes you grab your keys and drive across town at 2 a.m. because you feel that something’s wrong. It’s also what makes you stay when every logical bone in your body is screaming at you to leave. Instinct in this world isn’t about survival—it’s about desperation. It’s impulsive, it’s messy, and it’s intolerable. You don’t think, you react. You don’t process, you protect. 

But what happens when your instincts start betraying you? When your gut and your heart start fighting to the death, pulling you in opposite directions? You begin to lose track of which voice to trust. You start questioning yourself—your sanity, your strength, your ability to see clearly. Because sometimes, your instincts lie. Sometimes, the same gut that warns you of danger also begs you to stay with it. 

That’s the part that breaks you. The staying. The knowing you shouldn’t, but you still do. Because some part of you still believes you can fix it—fix him. You want to believe love is stronger than the drug, that this time will be different. That if you just hold on tighter, fight harder, pray louder—it’ll be enough. But instinct doesn’t care about logic. It doesn’t care about how many times your heart has cracked. It just cares about surviving the day. 

You start to live in survival mode, always half-alert. You can sense when his voice changes, when his pupils shift, when the lie starts forming before it even hits his lips. You memorize the signs like a second language—one you never wanted to learn but now speak fluently. Instinct keeps you awake when exhaustion begs you to rest. It keeps your body tense, your heart on guard, your mind rehearsing every possible outcome before it happens. You’re always one step ahead of disaster, but never far enough to escape it. 

And yet, instinct isn’t the enemy—it’s the part of you that refuses to die. It’s the whisper that says, Keep going. Even when you’re buried under guilt, even when you can’t tell if you’re saving him or destroying yourself in the process. 

There’s a cruel irony in how love becomes an instinct. It tells you to protect, to nurture, to sacrifice—and then it punishes you for doing exactly that. It tricks you into believing your pain has a purpose. But there comes a moment when instinct shifts. When that deep-down voice, the one you’ve been ignoring, gets louder and starts saying: Protect yourself now. 

Love shouldn’t make you feel hunted in your own home. It shouldn’t make your kids scared to breathe. There’s a kind of exhaustion that doesn’t show on your face but lives in your bones. The kind that comes from constantly scanning for danger while pretending everything’s fine. You tell yourself it’s temporary, that he’s just “off” today, that tomorrow will be better. But your instincts know better. They always have. 

Are you there, Satan? It’s me, Morganne. 

I appreciate you coming on so strong this Saturday evening. I was out shopping with my oldest son when my phone started blowing up. My twelve-year-old was home, panicking. He was standing in his doorway, watching JC, who was barely staying upright—his face pressed to the wall, his body twitching, balancing on his toes like his body knew it was falling before his mind did. My son told me later how he could see it happening—the slow collapse, the way the spoon was still on the floor, the baggie sitting out in the open. 

He said he was so scared he wouldn’t know what to do if JC stopped breathing. He was scared because he didn’t know where the Narcan was. Let that sink in—a twelve-year-old child terrified that he hasn’t been taught how to save a grown man’s life. He called me back-to-back-to-back until I answered, his voice trembling, begging me to walk him through it over the phone. 

Is this real life? Am I seriously explaining to my baby how to use Narcan over speakerphone? My hands were shaking. I told him where it was, how to use it, what to watch for. I told him it’d be fine, that I was on my way home—but we both knew that was a lie. When I finally walked in, thirty minutes later, he was sitting at the top of the stairs, clutching the Narcan in one hand, his phone in the other, his little eyes wide and wet. He ran down the stairs, wrapped his arms around me, and held on like he thought if he let go, I’d disappear too. 

That hug broke me. Because in that moment, I loved him harder than I ever have, and I hated myself just as much. What kind of mother puts her kids in this position? What kind of life have I created where my twelve-year-old feels responsible for keeping a grown man alive? 

I wanted to crawl under my bed and never come out. JC eventually came to—about an hour later. My oldest hid in my mom’s room while my youngest and I sat at the top of the stairs playing a game on my phone, pretending normal still existed. When JC finally woke up, the look on his face made me sick—like he was angry, like I had done something wrong. 

But this time, I didn’t flinch. I didn’t beg or explain. I just sat there. Because I was done. This was my turn to be angry. 

And still—my son sat beside me, waiting for an apology that would never come. He stayed glued to me the entire night. From the second he opened his eyes to the second he shut them, he didn’t leave my side. Some nights, I adore that. But nights like this? It guts me. Because he shouldn’t have to. He deserves better. He deserves peace. 

You win, Satan. I said it. They both deserve better than this. Better than me. And I’m so goddamn sorry. I keep blaming JC because it’s easier, but I know better. They’re my babies. And I’m the only one who can change this. And yet… I still haven’t. 

Until next time, 

 Morganne 

Sometimes, instinct feels like a lifeline; other times, it feels like a leash. It can pull you toward safety, or drag you deeper into the very storm you’re trying to survive. And when you’ve lived too long in that kind of storm, instinct slowly morphs into something else—something sharper, faster, and harder to control. It becomes impulse. 

Maybe that’s how it happens for all of us who’ve lived on edge too long—we start mistaking survival for intuition, reaction for protection. What once saved us begins to burn us. You stop thinking things through because thinking hurts too much. You start doing. You start reacting. You start fighting the fire with more fire, hoping at least one of the flames goes out. 

My best friend—the ultimate love of my life—is the embodiment of that contradiction. He is both the storm and the silence that follows. A walking Aries-Taurus cusp: fire and earth, eruption and restraint. One moment, he’s all Aries—reckless and relentless, ready to take on the world. The next, Taurus takes over—rooted, immovable, stubborn to the point of destruction. It’s like living with two different people: one who wants to run, and one who refuses to move. 

That duality became my life—the constant pendulum swing between instinct and impulse, between holding on and letting go. I learned to adapt to his extremes, to anticipate his shifts before they came, to balance myself in the middle of his chaos. But over time, I became just as unpredictable. Just as impulsive. 

Sometimes, we carry a kind of liability no one else can see—the emotional cost of loving someone who lives between two worlds. The weight of pretending everything is fine while everything inside you is screaming that it isn’t. The exhaustion of loving someone who can’t love you back in the same way because their addiction won’t let them. That’s the kind of pressure that forces instinct to evolve into impulse—because waiting around for logic or healing starts to feel impossible. 

You stop overthinking and start surviving in real time. You act before you fall apart. You yell before you cry. You pack your bags before he can disappear again. You move because staying still has started to feel like dying. 

And even though you’re allowed to feel broken—defeated, lost, confused, and furious—you are not meant to live there. Pain is a stop, not a home. It’s only your fault if you pitch a tent inside it. There is a light at the end of the tunnel, even if all you can see right now is a black hole. It’s okay to seek help, to lean on others, to show your vulnerability in moments like these. You were never meant to carry this alone. 

Sometimes I sit in that stillness—the wreckage of another impulsive decision—and think about all the choices I’ve made, all the moments I let my children see too much. The chaos, the shouting, the nights they shouldn’t have witnessed. I can’t escape the weight of those memories: the times I let love, fear, and desperation steer me into hell, dragging them behind me. It breaks my heart knowing they’ve seen ugliness no child should ever see. That they’ve had to grow up too fast, learning how to brace for storms before they ever learned how to dream. And in those moments, the guilt claws at me—telling me I’ve failed them, that they deserve better than me. 

But then, I look at them—at their faces, at the quiet resilience that lives in their eyes—and I remember who I am. I am their mother. I have always been their mother. No matter how many times I stumble, I will never stop fighting for them, just as they’ve never stopped believing in me. We’re a team. We’ve survived the unthinkable together, and somehow, we still laugh. Somehow, we still love. The world’s judgment doesn’t get to touch us. Our focus is on healing—on him, on them, on us. They have seen the worst, and yet they still stand beside me. And that… that is what keeps me going. 

The love I have for them is immeasurable, unbreakable, and no amount of guilt or failure can undo it. I may falter, I may fall, but I will always rise—for them, for myself, for the life I still believe we can build, free from addiction’s grip. This isn’t the end of our story—not by a long shot. There’s more to come: more healing, more love, more redemption. They are my everything, and no matter what happens, I will never stop being their mother. That is my truth. That is my anchor. 

I know it feels impossible to believe right now, but things can get better. Even the most shattered heart has the ability to heal. You are stronger than you think. Every day you make it through, even the smallest victory, is proof of your power. You have what it takes to rise above the chaos, to stand up for what’s right—for you, and for your babies. Don’t give up. Not yet. You’re closer to your own becoming than you realize. 

Impulsiveness is a double-edged sword. It can look reckless, even dangerous—but sometimes, it’s what saves you. It’s that spark that pushes you forward when fear tells you to freeze. It’s the first step toward freedom—the decision to stop waiting for permission and start taking ownership of your story. Impulsiveness can burn everything in its path, but it can also light the way out. 

Because impulsivity doesn’t always show up as chaos. Sometimes, it’s quiet—a sudden decision to stay, to speak up, to stand your ground. Sometimes it’s the whisper that says try anyway, when everything in you screams wait. Addiction is built on impulse—the craving, the urgency, the hunger that doesn’t pause for thought. And when you live alongside it, that energy becomes contagious. 

Are you there, Satan? It’s me, Morganne 

Well, today I woke up in one of those moods. One of those moods where I hate the world, and no one is safe. No one is safe from my thoughts, no one is safe from hearing exactly how I feel, at any given moment. Today is one of those days when even I’m afraid of what might come out of my mouth. So, I figured—what better way to spend my time than to tell you, one more time, just how much I hate you. 

Last night, I had a horrible dream—one of those cruel ones that brings the dead back to life. I saw both of them. Trevin and Phillip. And though I’ve missed their faces more than I could ever say, seeing them again, so close, so vivid—it made waking up unbearable. 

It’s still impossible to comprehend that I’ll never hear Trevin’s voice again, calling to vent about life or whatever mess he’d gotten into that week. I’ll never hear his laugh again, never laugh with him again. I can’t believe I’ll never hear Justin’s ridiculous laugh or see Nicholas Ryan’s baby blue eyes that could catch you from across a crowded room. It’s unfathomable—the selfishness of addiction, the way it steals without remorse. Nicholas was one of the best people I’ve ever known. Since we were twelve, he was steady, loyal, always the same. The kind of friend you could always count on. And Andrea—God, Andrea—she was my friend. One of my only friends. The night before she died, she was on my living room floor coloring with me. 

I don’t think JC will ever be the same without his Uncle Rick. He loved him more than anyone else in this world. When he found out, I watched him collapse in the driveway, knees hitting the concrete like his body couldn’t hold the weight of that grief. I could feel it from inside the garage—a kind of pain that vibrates through bone. 

And Phillip… there are no words for what losing him did to me. Britt could tell you how much he meant to me—how deeply I loved him. I’ve never been good with death, or funerals. I usually pretend it didn’t happen because if I actually faced it head-on, I’m not sure I’d survive it. 

All I can hope now is that they knew—how much they meant to me, how much I loved them, how much I miss them. They were so much more than their addiction. That part of them was small compared to the rest of who they were, though most of the world couldn’t see past it. I just pray they’re somewhere peaceful—reading this from Heaven—knowing this is all for them. 

Trev. Nicholas Ryan. Phillip. Justin. Uncle Rick. My beautiful Andrea. Please watch over me and my family. Please watch over your families. I miss you. I love you. And I will never, ever forget you. 

Do you know what I’m most afraid of? More than the dentist, more than the dark, even more than my dad? The kind of fear that makes your palms sweat and your heart thud in your throat—the fear of the unknown. These past five or six years have tested me in ways I didn’t think a person could survive. I’ve been forced to see what I’m made of. It’s the fear of not knowing what’s next—what tomorrow looks like, or if I’ll even recognize myself when it comes. 

I am a Virgo to a fault—overanalyzing, perfectionistic, reading everyone’s energy, making plans to make more plans. I have lists for everything, but still feel like the most organized basket case you’ve ever met. Bravery has never been my strong suit. I’m not brave. I’m a scattered, defensive, scared-of-everything version of myself, always on guard, always assuming the worst. I wear my mistrust on my sleeve. And I blame you for that, Satan. If you hadn’t tortured the people I love—if you hadn’t tortured me—my life would look nothing like this. 

Bravery isn’t learned overnight. It’s not inherited or handed down. It’s earned. Slowly. Painfully. It’s something you find only after you’ve been stripped down to nothing. I wouldn’t have gone searching for it if I hadn’t hit rock bottom the way I did. Rock bottom isn’t a single moment—it’s a long, dragging suffocation. It’s humiliation and exhaustion and pain so intimate it feels like a second skin. 

But I am living proof that rock bottom doesn’t have to be permanent. It only lingers if you let it. It only haunts you if you keep the door open. When you’ve been drowning in your own skin, clawing for air, dragging yourself toward safety—you change. You have to. It rewires the way you think, the way you love, the way you survive. 

I am living proof that when everyone who swore they’d love you forever disappears, when the world forgets your name and you have no one left—there’s still hope. God isn’t done with you yet. I found her again—the version of me buried beneath the grief, beneath the shame. I dug her out of the wreckage with my own trembling hands. It was the deepest trench I’ve ever had to crawl through—but I did it. And I’m still here. 

People trust me again. People respect me again. People love me again. And that—after everything—is the most humbling feeling in the world. Things only go up from here. 

So, Satan—listen carefully. You don’t get to control me anymore. You’ve had your fun. I may have never touched your poison, but you’ve been wrapped around me for far too long. Let go of my arm. I’m done being your puppet. I will not let you steal my happiness, and I sure as hell won’t let you keep his. I will bring him back from your side, and you can watch it happen. 

It’s your move. 

Until next time. 

Morganne 

Impulsivity is a force that takes hold of you when you least expect it. It’s the choice to stay when everything in your soul tells you to walk away, to fight when silence would be wiser, to love too deeply when you already know it might break you in the end. He and I are far too familiar with that feeling. His impulsive behaviors have shaped so much of our relationship—mostly in ways that have torn holes through it. His inability to think beyond the moment, to consider the consequences before they crash down on us, has always been the pattern that keeps repeating, over and over again. 

From the reckless decisions made under the influence to the words he spits out in fits of rage or fear, he is driven entirely by impulse. And when a relationship runs on reactions instead of reflection, chaos becomes the constant. There’s no peace. No safety. Just the never-ending ride—an unpredictable rollercoaster that leaves you dizzy, sick, and too terrified to jump off. 

Impulsivity is in the apologies that come too late, in the empty “I swear it’ll never happen again” that neither of us believe anymore. It’s in the emotional whiplash—the anger, the sweetness, the manipulation, the shame—all of it cycling so fast you start anticipating the crash before it even happens. You become fluent in the rhythm of destruction. You know every twist before it comes. 

And I’m not innocent in it either. My own impulsivity has kept me stuck too. I’ve made desperate decisions, clung to broken promises, stayed when I should’ve run. I’ve told myself that if I just love him harder, longer, louder—maybe this time would be different. Maybe we would be different. That blind, aching impulse to fix what I didn’t break has been my own addiction. It’s the consistency I kept choosing—the chaos I convinced myself was love. 

This pattern seeps into everything. It touches my parenting, my self-worth, the way I speak to myself. I’ve acted on emotion instead of reason too many times. Made promises I couldn’t keep, offered help when I had nothing left to give. Each impulsive decision left a residue of guilt and uncertainty—proof that I hadn’t yet learned to pause before reacting. It’s a vicious cycle that deepens when you never give yourself the grace to breathe. 

Still, I can’t deny—there are moments he shows up. He works every single day, makes sure my kids have what they need, loves them as if they were his own. Even in his brokenness, he tries. He protects us in his own way. This isn’t all criticism—there’s a man in there, underneath it all, who loves deeply, fiercely, and wholly. Life with him isn’t black and white—it’s all the shades of gray in between, and I see every one of them. 

But after everything impulsivity has stolen from us, I’m learning to slow down. To think before reacting. To breathe before speaking. I’m realizing that not every moment needs an answer, not every wound needs reopening. The pattern doesn’t have to own me anymore. I can choose stillness over chaos, clarity over confusion. 

I’m not perfect—God, I’m nowhere close—but I finally understand that I don’t have to let my impulses define me. The power to change my life lies in every small, intentional choice I make, one at a time. I don’t have to be ruled by reaction anymore. I can choose peace. I can choose me. 

Sometimes, impulse isn’t the enemy—it’s the spark that saves you. Sometimes the most impulsive act is to finally choose yourself without overthinking it, without apologizing for it. To stop waiting for the next “I’m sorry,” the next excuse, the next calm after the storm. When everything feels uncertain, when you’re terrified of the next step—that’s when your impulsive choice can be the one that saves your soul. 

Impulsivity can destroy you, yes—but it can also be the moment you take back your power. You are not the sum of your mistakes. You are what you do next. You are how you rise. Take it one breath at a time, one choice at a time. You’re not alone in this. The future is still wide open, waiting for you to reclaim it. 

I’m sure you remember this like it was yesterday, but I just want to remind you of one of the scariest moments of my entire life. I was seconds away from losing him — forever. I will never forget it for as long as I live. 

It was six weeks before Christmas, two years ago. I was sitting on the couch with my mom while she sewed my niece’s stocking, and I had this awkward, sinking feeling in my chest — that kind of unease that has no name but won’t let you breathe right. My phone was broken, so I used hers. I tried calling J, over and over and over again. He wouldn’t answer. Completely out of character. He always answered, even when we were at each other’s throats. I must’ve called him fifty times. 

That’s when the panic set in. I pulled up his location — still at the hotel with Chad and Andrea. He was supposed to be home, helping my mom bring in the Christmas totes from the garage and put up the tree. He wouldn’t flake on her. That wasn’t him. If he said he’d be there, he’d be there. 

I called Chad. No answer. I called Andrea. Again and again and again. Finally, she picked up. 

I was already screaming. Demanding to know where he was. She wouldn’t give me a straight answer. Just kept asking, “Do you have Narcan in your car?” Random as hell, since he had my car. I froze. Confusion turned to terror. I hung up, called an Uber, and flew out the door. 

By the time I got to the hotel, I couldn’t breathe. I could feel it — that invisible hand pressing down on my chest, the one that whispers something’s wrong. I sprinted through the lobby, pounded on the door like the police. When Andrea opened it, I shoved past her so hard she stumbled backward. 

And there he was. 

My gut had been right. My worst nightmare was lying there in front of me — my boyfriend curled up in the bathtub, in nothing but his boxers and socks. Gray. Shaking. Lifeless. 

If you know him, you know he would never be like that in front of anyone. He’s the guy who refuses to take his shirt off to swim when it’s 90 degrees outside. Seeing him like that—vulnerable, exposed, and barely alive—was so wrong, so unnatural, that rage ripped through me like fire. I could’ve torn both of their faces off with my bare hands. 

I stayed in that bathroom, gripping the edge of the sink, trying not to explode. His lips were gray. His body was trembling. Not shivering like someone who’s cold—but shaking, uncontrollably, like something inside him was breaking. I didn’t need to ask. I knew. They’d just done CPR. They’d brought him back—and hadn’t even called me. Even when I was on the phone with her, she never said a word about it. 

If I hadn’t followed that gut feeling—if I hadn’t gone—I might have lost him for good. 

I wanted to scream. I wanted to demand a timeline, a play-by-play, anything to make sense of it. But I didn’t. I took a deep breath and swallowed it down, because knowing the details would have destroyed me. I didn’t need confirmation of how close to dead he’d been. My soul already knew. 

Are you there, Satan? It’s me Morganne 

Why he was half-naked, I’ll never know, and honestly, I don’t want to. But despite the rage boiling inside me, I felt something else underneath it—gratitude. As much as I wanted to hate them, I was grateful they saved him. They could’ve run. They had warrants out, every reason to vanish and leave him for dead. But they didn’t. They stayed. They saved him. So I took another deep breath and forced myself to say thank you, instead of what I really wanted to say. 

And there, in that bathroom, surrounded by chaos and disbelief, I don’t think I’ve ever loved him more. I don’t think I’ve ever needed him more. I didn’t tell him any of that, though. Pride kept my mouth shut. I just stood there, silent, staring at him, whispering to myself the things I couldn’t say out loud: Please don’t leave me. Please slow down. Please stay alive. 

Maybe if I’d said it, he would’ve listened. Maybe not. I’ll never know. The only thing I’m sure of is that I love him—unconditionally, painfully, endlessly. And I probably always will. 

(Dear God, thank you for showing mercy that day. Thank you for saving his life—and mine.) 

Until next time, Satan. —Morganne 

I want you to know that you are not alone on this journey. This battle—this internal struggle—is one that many of us encounter at some point in our lives. You are not defined by the choices others make, nor are you bound by their decisions or their inability to choose you. You are a warrior. You stand tall despite the storms that rage around you, and that alone is worth acknowledging. Choosing yourself, even when it is painful, is one of the hardest things you will ever do. But trust me when I say this: the moment you start prioritizing yourself, even in the smallest ways, you begin to take back your power. You begin to rebuild. And let me tell you something—there is nothing more powerful than the moment you realize you are worthy of everything you’ve been fighting for. 

But before that strength comes clarity—and clarity often comes through pain. There’s a point when the ache becomes too much to bear, when your body and spirit can no longer pretend that “holding on” is bravery. That’s when the weight of what you’ve endured stops being heavy and starts becoming intolerable. 

Intolerable—a word that does not just describe something unpleasant—it defines an emotional state that stretches past irritation or discomfort. It signifies something unbearable, almost impossible to endure. It’s that feeling when a situation or behavior begins to chip away at your core, testing your limits, and draining your patience until you find yourself questioning how much more you can withstand. The weight of it presses down on you like you’re trapped beneath the tire of a semi-truck, pushing your mental and physical well-being into a state of collapse—a state of panic. It’s the point where someone or something has gone so far beyond your threshold of pain that continuing feels not just difficult, but impossible. Intolerable is the moment when something becomes more than an obstacle—it becomes a test of your strength, your resilience, and ultimately, your sense of self-worth. 

But intolerable isn’t always about what’s happening around you—it’s about what’s happening inside of you. It’s the exhaustion that rises from the pit of your stomach and fills your chest, constricting your ability to cope. It’s the emotional toll that slowly breaks you down, leaving you numb to everything around you. A heroin addiction is an intolerable weight on a family, bleeding into every crevice of life. It’s hard to find the strength to keep fighting when you’re trapped in a cycle of pure fear and false hope. The lies, the emotional neglect, the broken promises—they don’t just scar you. They reshape you. They rewrite what you think love looks like. Chaos becomes comfort. Survival becomes normal. 

Living in a state of intolerability isn’t truly living—it’s existing in a version of your life you hardly recognize. But here’s what I’ve learned: just because something feels intolerable doesn’t mean it’s the end. Sometimes, it’s the beginning of the change you’ve been too afraid to make. It’s the breaking point that becomes a turning point. What feels unbearable can become the catalyst for your evolution. 

This struggle, this relentless pain, is the moment you are called to step up, face the hurricane head-on, and decide whether you will collapse under the pressure or rise stronger than before. My journey has been filled with intolerable moments, but each one forced me to reassess my limits and redefine what I will no longer tolerate. Every intolerable moment is an invitation to reclaim control. 

At the heart of intolerance lies the desire for something better—something more. It’s not about enduring; it’s about refusing to accept a life that doesn’t align with your worth, your values, or your dreams. It’s about standing up and saying: Enough. This isn’t your breaking point—it’s your breakthrough. This is the moment you decide to rebuild, to stop letting addiction, chaos, and dysfunction dictate your existence. You must refuse to tolerate a future that dims your light or distorts your truth. Because in the act of reclaiming what’s yours, you begin to transform—not just your life, but the legacy you’ll leave behind. 

Do not allow anyone, no matter how much you love them, to diminish your worth. You deserve respect, kindness, and peace. And that starts with you. If someone is draining your energy, your spirit, or your sense of self—let them go. You owe it to yourself to walk away from anything that does not serve your highest good. 

So, stand tall. Walk forward. Every step toward self-control is a victory. It’s a declaration that you are enough, just as you are. Don’t let the fear of being alone or misunderstood stop you from demanding what you deserve. You are worthy. And one day, you’ll look back and realize that choosing yourself wasn’t the end of something—it was the beginning of everything. 

So, make your choice: will you sink, or will you swim? 

“When gratitude becomes an essential foundation in our lives, miracles start to appear everywhere.” (Dagher) 

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