The sound that broke the spell wasn’t a scream. It was a Huawei ringtone in the middle of a grocery store.
“This book is not about a man in prison.
It’s about the woman who dismantled her own life trying to love him — and the long, uneven crawl back to herself.
For eight years, I orbited someone I had never touched. I built rituals around phone calls, wrote letters like scripture, sent money I didn’t have, and bled onto paper to prove devotion to a god I didn’t believe in. I convinced myself it was love. That it was fate. That I was part of something sacred.
It wasn’t.
It was consumption. Spiritual conditioning. A kind of hostage-taking so slow and seductive it felt like a choice.
This is not a clean story. There is no cinematic moment when I “woke up” and walked away. There are relapses. Returns. Months of clarity followed by one stupid letter that set everything back in motion. There are scenes where I look pathetic even to myself. There are times I chose the cage over the door.
But there’s something else here too: a record of how I crawled out.
You are human. And the door is still there — even if you’ve forgotten how to walk through it.
This is the story of how I found my way back to myself.”
This is the opening of my memoir, written in real time alongside the documentary series.
New chapter excerpts drop weekly — sometimes raw, sometimes reconstructed, always true.
If you’re here for the full story — the eight years of letters, the rituals, the escape — you’re in the right place.
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