The gene still hasn’t been identified. That’s why families like mine were dismissed for decades.

This isn’t coincidence.
It’s inheritance with terrible marketing.

🧬🤍

Horror beyond anything I have ever experienced. Horror beyond horror.

as if my breaking somehow proved their victory.

I will never understand how you replace your own children and still sleep at night.

The most frightening thing of all is this.
This is who he always was.
I was too bamboozled to see it.

I was told what I could wear. Who I could talk to. Thirty seven years erased. As if I had never been here at all.

He grew to despise me. And all I did was get sick and disabled.

Now he is in a new life. With new kids. And the people who once saw me crumble closed ranks over what was left of me,

The one who stood in ICUs and said you were worth it.
And the one who told his family you were lying.

It makes sense that my mind keeps circling it. A bond like that does not simply break. It shatters the map of how the world is supposed to work.

I lost more than a marriage. I lost a witness. I lost my advocate. I lost credibility with his family and with the world. The same people who watched my physical and emotional collapse later supported the version of events that erased me.

Two realities living in the same memory.

“I can’t do this anymore” and choosing to erase the truth of someone’s illness to make leaving easier.

Calling a sick woman a liar after two brain surgeries is not burnout.
It is betrayal.

It is reality violence.
It tries to overwrite facts with convenience.

The man who stayed said I was worth it.
The man who left decided my worth expired.

That is not something a woman who trusts her husband can easily survive. Ever.

Caregiver burnout is real. I understand that. I am not an ogre. I do not expect sainthood. But there is a difference between saying

Munchausen.

Despite real imaging.
Real surgeons.
Real diagnoses.
Real operative reports.
Real scars.
Real charts.
Real specialists.
Real recovery timelines.

Paper trails. Bone trails.

Not vibes. Not stories. Not imagination.

He prayed with me. He drove me to appointments. He advocated when I could not speak. He watched my body fail in real time. He knew I was not imagining any of it. He lived inside the evidence.

The man who left is the one who later spoke to his supporters and all of a sudden decided that I had

brain. He watched them cut into my skull. Twice. He saw the scars. He saw the swelling. He saw me unable to walk, unable to tolerate light or sound, unable to function.

He told me I was worth it.