The Slow-Motion Rape of Healing

Why the "Good Girl" drug is the hardest one to quit.

Healing is a scam. It’s just a fancy word for being riddled with grief and hate while you try to act like you’re “growing.” I’d take a total drug blackout over this mental exhaustion any day. Fuck the soft stuff; this is a war.

I hate rest. I fucking hate it. I try to be still, but the guilt is a parasite. My demons just pace the floor of my head, relentlessly whispering that a “good girl” never stops. Fuck. I’m exhausted, but I’m too haunted to sit down.

Work was a goddamn circus this week. Chaos everywhere, and instead of crashing, I thrived.

It was a fucking flashback with that motherfucking “idle hands” trauma clicking into gear. That rush of being a “good girl” earning her keep hit my veins like cocaine. I was hooked on being noticed for the grind.

What the fuck is wrong with me? I’m addicted to the very thing that’s killing me.

I tell everyone else to put down the “coke” of the grind. I preach that rest is part of the journey. But behind closed doors, I’m the biggest addict of them all.

I’ve got a needle in my arm before the flame even dies out. I’ve always been terrified of the prick, but the rush of erasing the demons in my head is worth the faint.

Hypocrite. Junkie for the hustle. Anything to keep the noise quiet.

But the noise won’t stop.

I’ve built a life that hides the syringe, but there’s one person who won’t let me forget where it’s buried - pressing it against my skin every goddamn day, begging me to let the poison back in.

“Cut them out” is a lie for people with easier lives. I wish it were that simple. Instead, the anxiety buckles my knees. I fight like hell, I promise you, but I’m human. And humans fail. Sometimes the needle just wins.

The paranoia is a terminal itch.

I’m constantly scanning for the trapdoor, waiting for the world to realize what I am and drag me into the light. I live like there’s a blade pressed to my throat in the dark, twitching at every shadow in the corner of the room.

My hyper-vigilance isn’t a gift; it’s my guardian demon. A cold, black weight stitched to my spine, feeding on my pulse and making sure I never, ever feel safe enough to breathe on my own.

Thirty-four years, five kids, and a history so jagged it makes my therapist look at me like I’m a miracle or a corpse. “How the fuck do you even get out of bed?” they ask.

I don’t have an answer. Because inside, the clock stopped a lifetime ago. I’m thirty-four on my license, but I’m twelve in the dark - small, useless, and waiting for a blow that already landed. I’m a ghost in a grown woman’s skin, playing house while I rot and somehow .. bloom.

I’m locked in a room with healing, and it’s a slow-motion rape. Motherfucker.

I’ll let it have its way with me. I’ll stay open and take the “growth” like a good girl until the needle starts to glimmer in the dark again. As soon as that steel hits the light, I’m gone. I’m just a warm body for the ‘growth’ to feed on until the steel finds my vein again and I can finally go cold.