Weirdly Confusing: Betrayal, Brutality, and Choosing Joy

When Trust Turns Into Theft

Some people are built to drain light from the room. They twist your kindness, and when you look closer, you realize they've inverted your joy.

It's confusing. It's weird. It's confusingly weird—and that's exactly how I'd describe the emotional and mental chaos I've been walking through.

I'm not sharing this for sympathy or praise. I'm sharing it because someone out there might be on the edge, wondering if they can keep going. Maybe this helps them hold on a little longer.

Not long ago, I was still reeling from a police brutality incident—a raw encounter with racial profiling at its worst. I was bruised, inside and out, when I asked someone I trusted to help clean my apartment. This wasn't a stranger. This was someone who had once stood by me—helped me financially, even supported me through my mother's burial.

That same night, they stole from me.

I told myself to let it go. I convinced myself that gratitude was more important than justice. But soon after, something else disappeared—something I couldn't replace. The loss wasn't money this time. It was trust. A friend I'd known for years called me a thief to my face, because he knew her through me. Just like that, I was cast as the villain in my own story.

The betrayal hit deep. But I told myself, *"Whatever."* Maybe it was self-protection, maybe denial—but it kept me moving forward.

Seeking Help—and Being Told "You're Too Much"

After the police incident, I went to a doctor who immediately referred me to a therapist. When I finally sat across from her and started explaining what had happened, she stopped me mid-sentence and said words I'll never forget:

> "I'm sorry. I can't take you. It's too much."

*Too much.*

She referred me to trauma specialists trained for severe cases. I searched. Across all of Germany, I found fewer than five—and none in Berlin. The nearest was two hours away. So, I didn't go.

You might think I gave up. Maybe I did. But I still smile. I still laugh—loudly, unapologetically. I'm sometimes on the dance floor like a Wild Dance Floor Rockwilder!!! 😉

Still, a few days after everything, something unfamiliar took root inside me: hatred. Pure, undiluted hatred.

It scared me. That's the kind of darkness that makes people destroy themselves or others. But I refused to let it win. I was raised better than that.

My Mother's Lessons—and the Weight of Grief

My mother—may her soul rest in peace—used to tell me, *"The world won't do everything for you. You'll have to do most of it yourself."* She ran a small hospital, helping people who couldn't pay, often working until her body gave out. She gave without keeping score. I didn't realize until she was gone that her kind of strength was a rare gift.

When she passed, something inside me broke—but something else awakened. I began to see all the ways I had drifted from her in her final years. Missed calls. Canceled visits. I was *"busy building a life"* here in Europe. Now I see that what I was building wasn't truly mine.

Breaking Out of a Life That Was Never Mine

For nine years, I lived in someone else's world. A long relationship. Two amazingly intelligent, smart, lovely, beautiful daughters. But over time, I realized how much of my identity had been quietly rewritten.

The people I called friends were chosen for me. The clothes I wore, the music I listened to, the places I went—filtered through her preferences. I never cared for expensive designer clothes, but I wore them because she liked them. Even my friends weren't mine; they were extensions of her circle.

When my mother died, I finally found the strength to step out—to rebuild from nothing. And the price was immediate: she stopped me from seeing my children.

I haven't seen my daughters in months. The last time was their birthday, when I begged to deliver gifts. I stood there smiling, holding presents I bought with love—and watched a door close between us.

I miss them. Terribly.

Grief, Missed Flights, and a Mountain of Debt

I booked flight after flight to Nigeria for my mother's burial in late January / early February 2025. Each ticket cost hundreds of euros. I missed three of them.

Two times, I was already at the gate—sitting there, lost in thought. My body was present, but my mind wasn't. When I looked up, it was over. The plane was gone. The gate was closed. Everyone had moved on except me.

Back in Germany, I furnished the cheapest and fastest apartment I could get. I borrowed money. Debt stacked up like bricks on my chest. And while I was still healing, I took on another fight—this time with the almighty Berliner Polizei!! WOW!!! Because silence is not an option, as most of us believe, my lawyer agreed to help, letting me pay in installments. Without that, I couldn't even afford justice.

Through all of it, one thing has kept me standing: my job. I deeply appreciate my current job and the team I'm still working with today. It has been the only stable thing in my life—the one consistent support that eased both the financial pressure and the endless mind-distracting battles. Stability, I've learned, can heal more quietly than any therapy session.

I Still Cry—But I Refuse to Break

Some nights, I still cry. Loudly. Unapologetically. I've shouted into forests until my voice cracked, until the echoes were the only thing left.

But I won't let pain define me. I love my smile too much for that... oh yes! I really do 🙂

I love making people laugh, reminding them that light still exists even in ruins.

Life is circular. What you give eventually finds its way back. I've given until I was empty—my time, my last euro—and somehow, the world still handed me reasons to keep believing.

A friend I barely knew gave me her console to help distract my mind. Another showed up to help me build my kitchen for free. One comes around a lot—sometimes inconvenient for him—but just to make sure I'm not battling loneliness as well. And a wonderful human that I'd met once, only months earlier, helped me find a roof when I had none.

The world can be cruel, but kindness still hides in it—quiet, unexpected, and powerful.

Keep Going

That's my message. Keep going.

Be kind, even when it feels pointless. Smile, even when it hurts. Do good, even when no one notices. The world will test you—tear at you, lie about you, try to bury you.

But you? You're still here. You're stronger than you know.

I am proof.

This story is just a glimpse—many names, many details will stay unwritten. But if you're reading this, hurting, wondering if anyone understands…

You are not alone.