🥀 Outcast’s Odyssey Excerpt 🥀

 

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Excerpt from Outcast’s Odyssey

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“Field Notes from the Fracture Point

There wasn’t a single moment when everything fell apart. No dramatic collapse. No obvious disaster. It was slower than that—more like erosion. A gradual unmaking. A quiet unraveling of who I thought I was. I called it growing up. I called it being strong. But in truth, I was disappearing a little each day, mistaking silence for resilience and detachment for maturity.

Still, something deeper knew the truth. A part of me stayed awake. It noticed the small betrayals—when I laughed at things that hurt, when I said yes just to be safe, when I felt pride for not needing anyone. That part kept track. It remembered the compromises and the swallowed feelings. It recognized that the person I was becoming wasn’t actually me—just someone who had learned how to survive.

Eventually, the symptoms showed up. Not in ways I understood, not at first. It looked like restlessness, emotional numbness, snapping at people I loved. Then came the panic. The fog. The feeling of being everywhere and nowhere at once. Anxiety without cause. Sadness with no name. It was like something inside me had cracked, and everything I’d buried came rushing to the surface all at once.

That’s what I mean by a fracture point. Not a breakdown, exactly. More like a rupture—an opening. The first honest moment in a long time. And once it starts, you can’t pretend it didn’t happen. You begin to question everything you once accepted. You start to see your reflection clearly, and it’s both freeing and terrifying.

This book began in that place.

Not as a solution. Not as therapy. But as a way of staying honest. A record of becoming. It’s where I started naming the things I wasn’t allowed to feel. Where I gave shape to memories I didn’t know I had. It’s messy, imperfect, and incomplete—because so is healing. So is identity.

If you’re here, maybe you’ve felt it too—that moment when the story you were given no longer fits. When the mask slips. When the version of yourself that once kept you safe starts to feel like a prison. Maybe you’re still somewhere in the middle of it, trying to figure out what’s real.

This isn’t a guidebook. There are no answers in these pages. Only reflections. Only field notes from someone who’s still walking.

But sometimes, that’s enough.”

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“Micro-fracture

The first sign was my reaction

to a moth on the ceiling—

still, dust-colored,

utterly unbothered by the light

I couldn’t seem to stand.

I started mistiming things.

Smiles arrived seconds too late.

Words felt pre-recorded.

Crowds blurred.

Even silence felt like static.

I stopped pretending it was nothing.

A thin line in the glass,

spreading slowly across the surface—

I felt it behind my eyes,

tight and sharp

like the edge of a scream.

Even my breath betrayed me.

Too shallow to trust.

Too loud in the quiet.

A soft rebellion

against the life I hadn’t questioned in years.

No one noticed.

Not yet.

But I did.

And that made it real.”