My story is complex. So complex that people aren’t believing me. They think I’m not right in my head when they hear all I try to explain to them.

And it’s true. The story does sound unbelievable. So much so that I’m suspected of being psychotic. But my mind is clear. All the pieces I’ve gathered of the things that have happened make sense. Much is provable.

I’ve been badly hurt, starting a few years ago. Emotionally damaged to such a degree, that things could not get much worse. PTSD, together with memories that are so awful I want to die. My personality has changed due to emotional abuse. And – of course – I have the bipolar disorder that’s been with me all my life. There’s not much emotional wellness left for me. And so, almost every day, I find myself looking for ways to end my life.

Friends have been listening to untruths about me. And – considering me “crazy” – cannot be dissuaded from the incorrect view they have of me. They do not look on me as a person who is making sense. After all, what sane person would come up with stories like mine?

But my story is all true. It’s a story of deceit, pretense, a cruel turning from trusted friend to the worst kind of enemy. And why? That’s another part of the story.

Yes. My story could fill a good-size book.

But how will I survive the memories that hurt so much? How can I escape this story?

The best way is to do what I’m doing now. To write. Writing keeps me going. Writing keeps me alive. And maybe – along the way – something will happen that might help you, my readers. I pray that God will help me bring some good from this ugliness. He’s good at that.