By Owie Joy
True Confessions!
This isn’t a story. It’s not an essay. It’s not even a cry for help. It’s something much heavier. It’s a purge.
Because there comes a moment in your life when you can’t carry the weight of who you’ve pretended to be anymore. When the lies you’ve told yourself become louder than your heartbeat. When the silence in your chest is deafening. That moment came for me — not in a dramatic collapse, but in a quiet stare at my own reflection, realizing I no longer recognized the person looking back.
So I’m going to say it all. The things I’ve buried. The parts I’ve hated. The truths that never made it past the inside of my mouth. This is me — naked, unapologetic, and finally unafraid.
I’ve Lied My Entire Life
Not the kind of lies that get you arrested. Worse. I’ve lied about who I am.
I lied when I said I was okay. I lied when I said I forgave my father. I lied when I said I didn’t love her. I lied every time I laughed too hard at a joke that wasn’t funny just to be accepted. Every time I said “yes” when I wanted to scream “no.” Every time I swallowed my boundaries because I was terrified of being left.
You want to know what makes you feel like a ghost? It’s not death. It’s living a life that doesn’t belong to you.
I became a chameleon. Changing my colors for every room, every relationship, every version of love I thought I needed to earn. I was a mirror for other people’s expectations. But you can only reflect so long before you vanish.
I Loved Someone Who Never Loved Me Back — And Stayed Anyway
You want real? Here’s real.
I gave five years of my life to someone who could barely give me five minutes of honesty. I knew from the start that I was a placeholder — a convenience, not a choice. But I stayed. God, I stayed.
I waited for messages that never came. I held onto scraps like they were gold. I became an addict — not to a substance, but to a person. Every ignored call, every vague answer, every “I’m busy” carved itself into my bones, but I still returned, hungry for more.
Why? Because the absence of love from someone you crave can feel more intoxicating than genuine affection from someone who actually sees you. That’s the sickness. The lie I wrapped myself in like a warm blanket full of thorns.
The truth? I would’ve died for them. They wouldn’t have crossed the street for me.
And still… I stayed.
I Once Wanted to Disappear — Not Die
There was a time — not long ago — when I didn’t want to exist anymore. Not in a tragic, headline-making way. I just wanted to stop being. To fade.
I didn’t want to feel the shame of underachievement. The pressure to smile. The weight of never being enough for anyone — not my family, not my friends, not myself.
I didn’t write suicide notes. I didn’t make plans. I just… detached. I would wake up, stare at the ceiling, and feel absolutely nothing. Not sadness. Not fear. Nothing.
But here’s what nobody tells you: the absence of feeling is not peace. It’s hell. Because when even your pain leaves you, you’re not alive anymore. You’re a vessel. A shadow.
The only reason I came back was because I heard a voice — not divine, not dramatic, just a whisper from somewhere deep: “If you quit now, you’ll never know what could’ve changed tomorrow.”
So I stayed. And I started speaking.
Like this.
I Hurt People I Loved — Because I Didn’t Know How to Be Loved
This one’s ugly. No excuses.
There were people who gave me pure love. No games. No manipulation. Just presence. Realness. Safety. And I ran.
I picked fights. I shut down. I cheated. I belittled. I lied. Not because I wanted to hurt them, but because I didn’t know how to sit in love without sabotaging it.
Love scared me. Because love meant exposure. And if they saw the real me — the insecure, frightened, emotionally bruised me — they’d leave. So I left first. Emotionally. Physically. I chose chaos over comfort because chaos felt familiar.
To those people: I know you won’t read this. But I’m sorry. You were light. And I wore sunglasses.
I Trust God, and I Talk to Him Always
People like certainty. Religion thrives on it. Heaven vs. Hell. Right vs. wrong. I used to cling to it like a safety net. I prayed out of fear, not faith. I obeyed because I was scared of punishment, not because I loved the divine.
But now? Now I know what I believe. I don’t trust organized religion. I don’t think prayers are vending machines. I don’t think suffering is always part of some cosmic lesson.
But I still talk to God.
At night. In whispers. While driving. Not for answers — just to be heard. Because sometimes, all we really need is to feel like something — someone — is listening when we say, “I don’t know how much longer I can carry this.”
That’s what God is to me now. Not a judge. Not a puppeteer. Just a witness and a kindhearted father
I Am Finally Becoming Someone I Can Love
After all this — the pretending, the longing, the breakdowns, the lies — I’m still here. And for the first time, I’m starting to meet myself.
Not the people-pleaser. Not the overachiever. Not the version my parents wanted. The me that was buried beneath decades of fear.
I’m learning to say no. To say yes only when I mean it. To sit with my loneliness and not let it drive me back to the arms of people who once broke me.
I’m learning that peace doesn’t always feel exciting — but it feels safe. And I deserve safe.
I’ve stopped chasing the loud kind of love. I now long for the quiet, consistent kind. The kind that doesn’t leave when things get ugly. The kind I’m now learning to give myself.
Final Confession: This Is Not a Goodbye — It’s a Rebirth
This isn’t a letter of surrender. It’s a letter of awakening. For years I whispered the truth to myself in the dark. But whispering isn’t enough anymore.
So I’m shouting.
Not for pity. Not for validation. But for liberation.
This is my reckoning. My purging. My proof that survival isn’t pretty, but it’s powerful.
I am not ashamed of who I was. Because who I was got me here — bruised, bleeding, breathing.
And now?
Now, I am free.
These were my true confessions.
And they were everything I never had the guts to say until now.
