I should have butterflies in my stomach, anticipating Christmas morning with the kids.

It’s Christmas Eve.

I should be soaking in the magic, their excitement, their joy.

Instead, I feel sick.

Not from the flu.

Not from stress about wrapping gifts.

Not from the usual chaos of the holidays.

I’m sick with anxiety.

Waiting.

Dreading.

Counting down the hours until another episode of:

Is this reality?

Or have I been gaslit so far into oblivion that I don’t even know anymore?

A chaotic disaster, just waiting to unfold.

And when it does, the headlines will read:

“She’s having an episode—again.”

But they should read:

“Scapegoat’s mental illness used to hide the truth—again.”

I’m trembling, waiting for the ball to drop.

Except it never actually does.

The entire day is lost in the what-ifs.

Drowning in the anticipation of disaster that never comes.

And yet—

I’m still the one under the microscope.

I’m still the one everyone is questioning, analyzing, diagnosing.

“Is she okay?”

“Is she about to lose it?”

“Do we need to step in?”

Meanwhile, I am carrying the weight of the entire world on my shoulders.

But no one can know.

Because the world is too heavy.

And I am incapable of asking for help.

Because nobody sees past the perfectly painted picture in front of them.

I need today to be different.

I am not crazy.

I am right here.

I am present—for the presents.

I have been so manipulated, so gaslit, so rewritten

That the people who love me haven’t had the chance to actually love me.

Their daughter, sister, niece, aunt, mom.

I am not the unstable one.

I am kind.

I am smart.

I am funny.

I am good conversation.

People like me.

And you know what?

I like me.

Today will not defeat me.

He will not defeat me.