Written

Zerayn D.

“It’s not a big deal!,” he said.

I was sharing a difficult experience, one where someone’s aggressive tone and behavior really shook me. That was the response I got. I started trembling, trying to restate my words, and all I received was a nod. I took a deep breath, tried to simplify my explanation, and got a cold, “OK.” Panic started creeping in as my frustration built up. Inside, I was screaming. I was angry. Eventually, I just walked away, carrying that heavy feeling with me.

After that encounter, I felt such a deep weight inside. I thought about ways to decompress, so I went to the shooting range. I paid for a magazine of ten bullets, picked up a pistol, and fired without much thought—only to hit a headshot. “Wow,” I thought. My friend looked at me and asked, “Have you shot before?” I laughed and said, “No, that was my first time.”

The smell of gunpowder was oddly satisfying. Still, even after that rush faded, my mind kept spinning. I decided to seek a counseling session. The outcome revealed some familiar patterns—ones that reminded me of harsh realities I’ve long carried. I grew up in an environment of high expectations, where achievement was rewarded but mistakes were punished. There was no real sense of safety or emotional support.

Because of that, I learned to soar high, spread my wings, and reach new heights—but deep down, my heart kept shrinking. I hadn’t fully realized this silent struggle until adulthood forced me to confront it.

Now, I want to relive my childhood and begin to heal. I want to untangle the threads of my painful past and weave them into something beautiful. I want to scream it all out. I want accountability—but those who could give it are long out of reach.

Then, unexpectedly, someone I least expected offered me a chance for closure. He understood what I was trying to fix. We sat together in a room of reckoning , ready to have that conversation with people we believed are helpful. But instead of healing, it became another moment of pain. I got tired of explaining myself again and again. I broke down—tears of frustration, hands trembling with fear.

We were both taken aback, both left broken. He walked out disappointed; I walked out in tears. Looking back, I can’t help but ask myself, “Was that my closure? The one I asked for?”

I have learned from this experience that not all closures are as definitive as we expect it to be. In reality, some closures may offer an open-ended narrative, where individuals are left to shape their own conclusions to the story. Moving forward, I rest this case. I intend to seek additional support and professional resources beyond to further process this experience in case triggers will resurface. I will continue developing strategies that promote psychological safety and well-being so I can live at my best.