“So, Why Am I Happy?”— A monologue of distance, survival, and self-love.

You ask why I’m happy?

Funny how the question only comes now—
now that I’ve stopped explaining myself,
now that I’ve stopped showing up for people
who never noticed I was crumbling.

I’m happy not because life suddenly became kind,
but because I walked away from the rot I once called “home.”
I forgave them—not for their sake, never for them.
But for me.
To unshackle my wrists from the rusted chains
they wrapped in apologies.

I repainted my ruins.
I rebuilt my walls with bare hands and blistered hope.
I whispered into the wind
and let it carry my pain where it could no longer echo back.

I was there.
Every time.
When they were bleeding,
I tore parts of myself just to patch them up.

But when I was the one unraveling?
Silence.
They spared me reasons.
Not support. Not love.
Just cold, neat, well-explained reasons.

They laughed at the sacrifices I never mentioned,
mocked my distance when I finally drew a line.
No one asked,
“What happened to her?”
No.
They only asked,
“Why did she stop serving us?”

They made me feel guilty for healing,
for reclaiming the space they once drained.
They confused my boundaries for betrayal,
my silence for arrogance,
my peace for punishment.

But here's the truth:
I gave my best to people who were never meant to stay.
I became the rescuer, the bandage, the therapist,
until I was the one bleeding out on the floor.
And when I stopped showing up,
they called me bitter.
They never asked why I changed—
they just judged the version of me that finally chose herself.

So yes, I walk away now—
but not with regret.
I carry lessons,
not leftover pain.

They burned the bridges?
Good.
I grew wings.

They kept talking,
but I stopped explaining.
Because silence, for me,
became the sharpest, cleanest form of goodbye.

I used to scream.
Now I just leave.

I used to explain my worth.
Now I live it—loud in spirit,
quiet in execution.

I dream again.
Not caged, not pitied.
Not waiting to be rescued.
I’m my own sanctuary now.

They said I was “too much”?
No.
They were just not enough.

They called me cold?
I call it calm.
They called me selfish?
I call it survival.

They don’t get to pity me anymore.
They don’t get to tell my story.
Because I wrote it in fire.
And I walk with it inked into every step I take.

I no longer carry the weight of pleasing people who left me empty.
I stopped bleeding for those who wouldn’t offer me a bandage.
And now that I’m glowing in the dark,
they say I’ve changed?

**** right, I did.

Because this joy—
this stillness, this freedom—
was earned.

I am happy.
And no one gets to steal that from me again.