Eight months. That’s how long I fought for the unemployment I was rightfully owed—and finally, on August 1, I won. No fanfare. Just a flood of exhausted relief.
My July exchange surgery had already been pushed once – it was finally rescheduled, but I was scrambling for transportation, barely keeping the logistics together. Then came the anesthesia. Despite my chart clearly stating no narcotics, and a pointed very direct discussion I had with the anesthesiologist – she overrode it without telling me. I blacked out for days. My body felt hijacked. My trust violated. I was furious – again. What is wrong with these fucking people?? They are highly educated medical professionals who know better! How disappointing they are as people.
And while I staggered through recovery, something else broke—my support system. Friends who once checked in now vanished into silence. Calls unanswered. Help, when I needed it most, slowly evaporating. The isolation cut deeper than the scars. And yet—I endure. Resilience isn’t always loud. Sometimes it looks like getting up, alone, and doing it anyway. I may be angry. I may be overwhelmed. But I’m still standing. And I am not done.
Want to frame this part of your timeline as “The Breaking Point They Didn’t See Coming”? Because the next chapter… is yours to claim.