living through the latest chapter of my mental health nightmare
My heart is racing as I wait for yet another phone call. Another stranger. Another retelling of the worst day of my life, hoping they can help me piece together something salvageable from this wreckage.
I should be used to this by now. I should be numb. But I’m not.
In the background, my dad is blasting some garbage Facebook video about politics and global atrocities. The sound is so loud it makes it hard to think—or breathe. I keep waiting for him to go upstairs so I can steal a few moments of peace. But in the meantime, I’m trying to claw my focus together and write something that matters—something that might help me stay tethered to myself.
the fear of saying too much
I’ve been dancing around writing about what’s actually going on. I keep telling myself I’m setting the scene, or warming up, or writing for “illustrative effect.” But if I’m being honest, I’m scared.
Scared to say the real things.
Scared of what it means to put this all out there.
Scared of what happens if I don’t.
So I guess I’ll just start.
a legal note (because apparently this is my life)
If anyone from the Crown stumbles across this blog:
Fuck off. You are not welcome here.
Also, nothing written in this blog should be considered an admission of guilt or confession. Elements may be dramatized or fictionalized for narrative purposes. This is storytelling. This is processing. This is survival.
the first time I was criminalized
I was in the middle of writing about what happened in 2021 before all the current chaos hit. That post is still sitting in drafts, titled The Day My Life Ended—and I hope to finish and publish it soon. But the short version is this:
It was the end of my relationship with my first fiancé, Matt. We had a whirlwind romance. And in spite of all his flaws and transgressions, I loved him unconditionally. We shared many firsts: my first time on a plane, my first engagement, my first long-term relationship.
We were sleeping in separate beds. He wanted me out of his house. I was deeply depressed and in the middle of rTMS treatments that weren’t helping. I had nowhere else to go.
He texted my entire family to say that if I wasn’t gone by the next day, he would call the police. And that’s what he did.
We were outside CAMH, the psychiatric hospital in Toronto. I had forgotten my phone and refused to get out of his car. I didn’t want to go into my appointment without it. He ran off. I later learned he had called the police. He told them I assaulted and choked him.
I was arrested. I barely spoke to the officers—still trying to protect him. The charges cost me eight months and $4,000 in legal fees before they were dropped. But the damage had already been done.
everything changed
The moment it happened, time stopped. My chest tightened. My mind floated above my body. I lost my innocence. My belief that the world could be fair. And I began to lose parts of myself that I’ve never gotten back.
Before all of this, I was a high-achieving academic. I graduated summa cum laude in psychology. I was working on a master’s in psychology and neuroscience. I wanted to be a psychiatrist or a clinical psychologist.
I used to obsess over whether I should go the MD or PhD route. That’s how I knew I was well—because I cared. Now, I feel hopeless and apathetic toward either.
I dreamed of turning my pain into purpose. Of working in a helping profession. Of using my empathy—this thing that’s both my gift and my curse—to help others. But after 2021, and again now, those dreams feel more and more out of reach.
To work in any of those fields, you need a vulnerable sector screening. It reveals everything. Even charges that were dropped. Even mental health encounters with police.
So yeah, I’m fucked.
and then it happened again
I had a chance—until June.
That’s when Alex, my current fiancé, lost his temper and I got charged again. This time, six offences. Apparently, he never intended for me to be charged. But it happened. And now I’m back in another legal nightmare.
All I want is to be with my cats. To hear Taylor cry for snacks like he’s starving. To feel Ollie rub against me first thing in the morning. To smell that awful, comforting stink of cat food and feel like I’m home.
I read somewhere that grief is just love with nowhere to go. And as my chest aches, I know how true that is.
real-life interruption: blender edition
I was going to finish this earlier. But my dad was back on his bullshit—this time, the blender edition. My laptop keeps shutting off because it won’t hold a charge. Now it’s making weird crackling noises. I swear, even my electronics are giving up on me.
Every time I find momentum, the world interrupts me.
But I’m writing through it anyway.
That has to count for something.
I want peace
I don’t have a satisfying ending for this post, because I’m still living it.
I still don’t know what comes next.
But I do know this:
I’m hoping—begging—the universe to stop sending me lessons.
I’ve learned enough.
I’m tired.
I want peace.
xoxo,
Sarah
Sad Girl Sarah 
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