I’ve spoken openly about my past.
About psychosis. About healing. About how far I’ve come.

Not to be pitied.
Not to be congratulated.
But because telling the truth helped me reclaim it.

But here’s what I’ve learned:

Not everyone deserves access to that truth.
And just because I’ve done the work, doesn’t mean I owe anyone the wound.

When I shared with my neighbour, it felt like a moment of trust.
He seemed to receive it with care — said I’d clearly worked through it, that I was stable, grounded.
But later, when I enforced a boundary he didn’t like?
I could feel the shift.
Suddenly, it wasn’t about his behaviour.
It was about my past.

Same with Phil.
I called out something I couldn’t ignore — that he’d been drinking, that he hadn’t looked after my son properly, that I was angry and it mattered.
And his response? Deflection. Blame.
Twisting the narrative until my reaction became the problem.

And I realised:

People will use whatever they can to avoid taking responsibility.
And if you’ve ever been vulnerable with them, that becomes the easiest weapon.

So here’s where I land now:

You don’t get to use my story against me.
You don’t get to dismiss my boundaries by painting me unstable.
You don’t get to pathologise my anger just because it makes you uncomfortable.
You don’t get to pull from something sacred and twist it into something convenient.

I’ve lived it.
I’ve integrated it.
And it no longer belongs to anyone else.

So from now on, I will choose who hears that part of my story.
Not out of shame.
But out of respect.

Because I’ve done the work —
and I don’t owe you the wound.