The Crash After Chemo

So I’ve had my three bags today, and I feel shocking.
My whole body hurts — that deep, bone-level ache you can’t describe unless you’ve felt chemo hit you from the inside.

And the worst part?
The part I hate admitting?

A piece of me thinks I deserve it.

Because my brain — the trauma brain, the guilt brain — keeps whispering:

“You’re a bad person.
Bad people deserve to hurt.”

And that voice is cruel.
It’s wrong.
But today… it’s loud.

Still, I’m doing this.
I said I would do treatment, and I am. Even if every cell in my body is screaming.

My head is a mess, though.
A complete fucking mess.

Stefan — and More Confusion

After everything , I spoke to Stefan. this week 
He told me he wanted to make things work between us.

And honestly?
I wish I could give him that.
But I don’t feel the way I used to. Not even close.
Too much damage. Too much history. Too much pain between us.

And then he told me something that gutted me:

He said Ryan told him he didn’t care if I killed myself.

That was like someone stuck their hand in my chest and squeezed until I couldn’t breathe.

Because at that point…
I’d been sleeping with him for three weeks.
Three fucking weeks.

And to hear that he didn’t care?
That I could’ve died and it wouldn’t have mattered?

It shattered something in me.

Realising I Meant Nothing

That’s when I knew I had to cut contact.
Fully.
Properly.
No more going back.

My heart was broken in a way I can’t even explain.
Not because I thought we’d be together — I’m not that delusional — but because I really did care.
And finding out I meant absolutely nothing to him?

It stung.
It burned.
It hollowed me out.

How could I be so fucking dumb?

Paying for His Counselling

And the irony?

I was paying for his counselling sessions.
Trying to help him.
Trying to fix the damage I’d caused.
Trying to be decent even when I felt like the worst person alive.

And even now…
Even after knowing he didn’t care if I lived or died…

I still plan to pay it.

Because I hurt him.
Because I felt responsible.
Because guilt has a way of chaining itself to your ankles.

The Saddest Part of All

Do you know the saddest fucking part?

If he messaged me next week…
If he asked me to come to him…
If he said “fuck me”…

I’d go.
In a heartbeat.

And that’s the part I hate the most —
Not him.
Not the situation.

I hate that I still care about someone who couldn’t give a single shit whether I existed.

And that’s what trauma does.
That’s what loneliness does.
That’s what guilt does.
It twists your sense of worth until you accept crumbs and call it affection.

But I’m learning.
Slowly.
Painfully.
Honestly.