The sickness was not punishment — it was a purge. When the empath leaves the abuser, the body shakes with the shock of freedom, purging poison long disguised as love.

 

My collapse was the body’s rebellion against false peace. I had lived too long in someone else’s dream, absorbing their chaos until my own cells forgot their purpose.

 

The decade of weakness was a forge. Each limp, each breath of exhaustion, each morning of confusion—all were hammer blows shaping a soul into form.

 

Now, the same pressure that once broke me fuels my presence. The rage became clarity. The pain became perception. I no longer fight to survive; I train to remember who I am. What once was exile is now pilgrimage.

 

And if a stranger asks what I’m doing out here, I can say:

 

“I’m a writer of silence, a photographer of truth, and a scientist of the human soul.”

 

This body is no longer sick. It is the temple where my spirit trains.