Ngige Sam
@samngige1728
28 days ago

It was a Tuesday night, March 14th. I was curled up on my couch, scrolling through Instagram. I saw Sarah post a story - a screenshot of a conversation. It was blurry, but I recognized the bubble colors. My bubble colors.

I didn't think much of it. People screenshot stuff all the time.

Then I saw the name at the top of her story. It was a group chat called "The Real Hangout."

I knew that name. They'd mentioned it once, casually. I had never been added.

I zoomed in on the screenshot. My heart stopped.

It was a message I had sent to Jenna two days before. A private message. I had told her I was struggling with my mom's health. How I felt like I was drowning. How I couldn't sleep.

Underneath my message, there was a laughing emoji. Then a voice note from Mike: "Lol she's so dramatic again."

I stared at the screen. My hands went cold.

I scrolled through the rest of the story. There were more screenshots. My message to Mark about a job I didn't get. My message to Chloe about my anxiety. All of it. Laid bare. Rated. Mocked.

I felt like I was watching myself die from outside my body.

I didn't confront them that night. I couldn't. I just sat there, scrolling through their stories for two hours. Piece by piece, I watched my private pain become their public joke.

The turning point came at 3:47 AM.

I got a notification that Sarah had posted a new story. It was a screenshot of a message I had sent her five hours ago - before I knew. I had written: "Hey, I really appreciate you. You're a good friend."

Underneath, she had typed: "She's so needy. I can't."

I threw my phone across the room. It hit the wall and cracked.

I sat on the floor, back against the bed, and I sobbed. Not for them. For me. For the version of me that thought sharing my heart was safe. For the girl who believed that if she was honest and vulnerable, people would love her.

I didn't know that love could be used against you.

The next morning, I left the group chat that I was *actually* in with them. I didn't say a word. I just left. Then I blocked every single one of them. Sarah. Jenna. Mike. Mark. Chloe. All of them.

I deleted their numbers. I archived our photos together on Instagram. I didn't want to see their faces anymore.

For a month, I didn't go out. I barely ate. I wrote. I filled two notebooks with poetry. Ugly, raw, bleeding poetry. I wrote about betrayal. I wrote about trust. I wrote about the quiet violence of having your softness weaponized.

I went to a poetry night at a small black art gallery in my city. I stood on stage, shaking, and read one of those poems. I didn't look at the audience. I just breathed the words into the mic.

Afterward, a woman came up to me. Her name was Amina. She told me she worked at a nonprofit for mental health. She asked if I ever wanted to talk.

That was three years ago. I'm still friends with Amina. She's the only one from that night who stayed.

Now, I have a small circle. Three people. They know my password. They've never shown my messages to anyone. They ask before they screenshot.

I still get nervous when I see someone pointing their phone at me. But I'm learning.

I'm not healed. I'm just less broken than I was.

I still write. I still read at the gallery. I still believe in love, but I no longer hand it out like candy. I hold it close. I make people earn it.

And I know now that the people who laugh at your pain were never your people.

You were just their entertainment.

I'm still standing. That's the only victory I need.

#prioritizeyourmentalhealth #poety #blackartgallery #africapoet #NircleStories #musicandpoetry #veganlifestyle #HelloNircle #Notes #RealTalk #MyStory #TrustNoOne #TheHealingContinues

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@gwendolynbaker9804 @luisahausman2013 @joaquinkeele3777