Taking Down the Picture

There’s a picture hanging on the wall of my toilet — artwork given to me about eight years ago by someone I once called a friend. I haven’t really spoken to him in years. He doesn’t call. He’s the kind of person who openly admits he doesn’t reach out to anyone — which really means he never reached out to me.

Back then, I believed that story. I told myself, “It’s not personal — he just isn’t the kind of guy who calls.” But I see now that it was personal. I just didn’t want to face what it really meant.

The truth was this:
I wasn’t part of the group.
I wasn’t liked.
I wasn’t invited.
And they never had the courage to say that outright — so I stayed confused, hoping, reaching, justifying.

Looking back, it wasn’t psychosis that caused me to feel outcast — it was feeling outcast that contributed to the psychosis. That deep sense of being excluded, unchosen, unseen. I thought these people were my friends. I really did. And when I realized they weren’t — something inside me broke.

That break came after years of being disrespected in small ways that I brushed off, internalised, and even excused. The weed helped me ignore it. The hope kept me going back. And the part of me that was still desperate for connection — that part made me betray myself again and again.

I tried to fix those broken dynamics by doing their website years later. I worked hard, did a good job, and they didn’t even pay me. It was the same pattern all over again.
And before that? They slept with someone I really liked — someone they knew I had feelings for.

They didn’t care.
And I pretended not to care either — because being included still felt safer than being honest.

It’s taken me this long to say it plainly:
I wasn’t liked.
I was used.
And in trying to be liked, I sacrificed my dignity.
I became “useful.” Not lovable. Not respected. Just available.

There’s a particular sadness in that — in knowing how many times I let people treat me like I didn’t matter, just so I wouldn’t have to face the loneliness of walking away.

But now I do have self-respect. And that picture on the wall? That’s not just a memento. That’s a symbol of me keeping the door open for people who never planned to walk back through it with love.

So today, I’m taking the picture down.

Not with rage. Not even with regret. Just with a quiet kind of love for the version of me who needed it there. And a deep promise to myself that I’ll never again decorate my home — or my heart — with things that make me feel small.

Some losses are necessary.
Some endings are overdue.
And some pictures belong in the past.

Today, I reclaim my wall.
And I reclaim myself.

---