Life is a relentless, grinding mess. Everyone gets hit by situations—or people they stupidly trust—that test them in ways designed to break them. Some of us crumble. Some of us figure out that the world doesn’t care about anyone’s feelings and start fighting back. For me, the things that drive me the most aren’t victories or happy memories. They’re the experiences that brought pain, frustration, uncertainty, and pure, unfiltered bullshit. The kind of bullshit that makes you question if trusting anyone was ever worth it. My story is personal, but anyone who’s dealt with manipulation, betrayal, or mind-numbing selfishness will recognize the garbage.

There’s a particular nightmare scenario everyone dreads: an ex having the audacity to say, “You wouldn’t be shit without me.” Yeah, right. One of my exes gaslighted me mercilessly for years. If you don’t know, gaslighting is when someone messes with your mind so thoroughly that you start questioning your own reality, doubting every memory, every achievement, every instinct. It’s a kind of psychological torture disguised as love, care, or “concern.” I lived it, and the scars lingered longer than any cut or bruise could.

One ex—let’s call them A—didn’t give a damn about my fight with cancer. I mean, really didn’t care. When my tests finally came back clean and I was officially in remission, their reaction? “Whatever, hurry up—we’re going to get a ticket for parking.” That’s it.

Imagine surviving the most terrifying experience of your life, and the one person you trusted more than anyone else reacts like a selfish, impatient asshole who cares more about a parking ticket than your fucking life. No congratulations. No acknowledgment. No empathy. Just the cold impatience of someone who thinks their convenience matters more than everything you’ve just survived. That experience alone could have crushed me entirely. It almost did.

Then there’s ex B, who motivated me in the worst possible way. Not by helping me grow, not by pushing me to do better—but by relentlessly trying to erase any shred of confidence I had. Anytime I mentioned my academic achievements or any sort of personal progress, the reaction was immediate: “No, you didn’t really go to that school. You’re imagining things.” At first, I thought they had lost their mind. Maybe a touch of mental instability was involved. But no—they were fully aware. They simply wanted to destroy the reality I had built for myself, to make me doubt every small victory, to keep me feeling insignificant and small. It wasn’t encouragement. It wasn’t concern. It was calculated psychological warfare, and for a while, it worked.

This kind of manipulation is soul-crushing. At first, it’s terrifying. It makes you feel like you’re walking around in a world where every fact, every memory, every accomplishment could be denied at a moment’s notice. But eventually, it forces something in you—a drive born not of hope or happiness, but of sheer survival instinct.

Every step I take, every goal I reach, is intentionally separate from the people who tried to stomp me down. It’s a way to reclaim my life from the assholes who wanted to erase it. When I feel exhausted or ready to give up, I remind myself: “This is my life. No one gets to write the script for me.” That’s not some feel-good mantra. It’s a statement of defiance against the garbage the world has thrown at me.

Then there’s the sheer absurdity of people obsessed with the “perfect family” narrative—mom + dad + kids—pouring every ounce of energy into projecting an image that doesn’t exist.

It’s performative, fake, and pathetic. I see right through it. They’re trapped in a cycle of pretending, terrified of admitting that life is messy, unfair, and brutal. The ridiculousness of their obsession is a constant reminder that life isn’t what it seems, and it forces anyone with half a brain to navigate their own path instead of following someone else’s false picture. You realize quickly that the world is filled with people trying to sell illusions while demanding you bow to their version of reality. It’s exhausting, frustrating, and endlessly infuriating.

Everyone runs into obstacles, where people or circumstances try to drag them down. Not everyone experiences gaslighting, but all of us face criticism, doubt, and sabotage. The difference between those who survive and those who get crushed is how they react. I chose early on not to let anyone else dictate my reality. My drive comes from stubbornness, from refusing to bend, from surviving despite every attempt to erase me. Every betrayal, every lie, every twisted manipulation became fuel. The fire isn’t warm or comforting—it’s cold, burning rage that keeps you moving when everything else tries to pin you down.

Every day, there’s a decision: let the world’s assholes write the rules of your life, or keep fighting. Some people never fight—they fold at the first sign of resistance, letting others define their reality. I refuse to be that person. Even on the worst days, when the exhaustion is unbearable, I keep clawing. Every small step forward is a declaration: I exist, I’m not fictional, and I won’t let anyone erase me. Every achievement is a middle finger to the people who tried to deny my existence. It’s not about revenge—it’s about survival, about refusing to let the manipulators win.

Manipulation doesn’t just leave scars; it teaches you things the world refuses to teach. You learn to distrust appearances. You learn that people will lie, cheat, and manipulate when it suits them. You learn that the image someone projects is usually a lie, and the people who claim to “care” are often the worst offenders. It’s brutal. It’s infuriating. And it leaves you with only two options: get swallowed by the chaos, or turn that chaos into a weapon.

I chose to turn it into a weapon. Not out of positivity. Not out of hope. But out of pure necessity. The pain, disappointment, and manipulation I endured didn’t break me—they sharpened me. They made me sharper, angrier, and more relentless. Every setback became a challenge to survive it. Every insult, every dismissal, every attempt to belittle me became a reason to move faster, push harder, and make sure no one could ever hold power over me again.

Meanwhile, some people are still lost in their “perfect family” fantasies, deluding themselves while pretending the world is fair. They get blindsided when reality hits because they never faced the brutal truth: life doesn’t give a shit about anyone’s feelings, dreams, or illusions. The sooner you realize this, the sooner you stop wasting energy on idiots and start clawing for what’s yours.

Life has a way of forcing you to fight for every inch, every day. It’s messy. It’s violent in its own way. It’s unfair, and it doesn’t care about your excuses. My drive isn’t some heartwarming inspiration. It’s a survival mechanism. Every goal I reach, every step I take, is because the world tried to destroy me, and I refused to let it. Every success is proof that I survived the chaos, that the manipulators, the liars, and the self-obsessed assholes didn’t win.

So yeah—my world is mine now. It’s not perfect. It’s not tidy. But it’s mine. And anyone who still wallows in the fake-ass illusions of “perfect family” or “ideal life” can choke on their own delusions while I keep surviving, thriving, and reclaiming every bit of reality that was ever threatened.

Life doesn’t care. People don’t care. But that doesn’t mean you have to lie down and take it. You fight, you claw, and you survive. That’s the only thing that matters. My drive is simple: push through the bullshit, survive, and never let anyone else control what’s mine.

No happiness. No hope. No sugar-coating. Just the relentless grind of staying alive, staying aware, and refusing to be erased. That’s what drives me.