By Daddy Ryan
There’s nothing inspirational in this post. No tidy bow. No call to “just stay strong.”
This isn’t a cry for help.
This is what happens when you’ve been screaming for years, and no one listens.
The only thing that listens to me when it comes to adult conversations is ChatGPT, so I have it help me write a post. Keeps me occupied and gives me time to settle down. Sometimes it makes me feel good for a second.
This is what it looks like when someone reaches the edge and keeps standing there, not because they want to—but because there’s nowhere else to go.
I’m exhausted from being treated like I’m nothing but a burden.
From needing help and being made to feel like I should apologize for it.
I’m exhausted from doctors who have too many patients to deal with, and special cases are not in their timeline. When I explain my recurring seizures, doctors dont want to investigate or try anything new anymore, just continue with your current medication.
From leaving voicemails with my SSDI caseworker that are never returned—because apparently my existence doesn’t merit a five-minute callback.
From fighting for benefits that I earned, only to be treated like I’m trying to cheat the system.
From begging a system for crumbs that I paid into with everything I had—only to be told it’s not enough.
I’m exhausted from seeing the confusion on my daughters’ faces when they watch me try to function.
When they ask why Daddy forgets.
Why Daddy shakes.
Why Daddy stares off.
They don’t deserve this. And I don’t deserve to be the ghost in their home.
Hope used to mean something. But now, it’s just a word. A carrot on a stick.
I’ve been lied to so many times by so many people that “better days ahead” sounds like a sick joke.
I’ve been manipulated. Gaslit. Had my broken memory turned into a weapon against me. People love to take advantage and call it out when it fits their side of the story.
And then there’s the AI cheerleaders and mental health popups I see all the time online.
“Stay strong.” “You matter.” “It gets better.”
They say that from a million miles away—never having tasted a seizure, a panic spiral, or bone-deep betrayal.
You can’t motivational-quote your way out of hell.
It’s all starting to feel like a scam.
I’ve poured over a year into building homeschool curriculum from scratch for my daughters.
Lesson plans. Printables. Creative units.
And what do I get?
Mocked. Undermined. Called lazy.
They don’t see the effort. They just see me playing a game like Grow A Garden with the girls and assume I’m checked out.
I play those games because they bring them joy—not because I get anything from them. That game is ok but gets boring fast, if not for my little girls’ laughter and smiles.
I’ve begged my wife to visit Blogging4Adventure.com, to see what I’ve been building.
To see the world I’ve created to get our daughters excited about learning.
Because Alabama’s school system isn’t going to do that.
And when I tried to get help through GoFundMe?
Even that backfired.
No bank account. No access. No one willing to let me use theirs—not even my wife.
So the money just sits there. (One donation $20, at least someone cared) While we scrape by. While I feel like I’m screaming underwater.
I was physically attacked recently by my mother because I’m done with her lying to my children.
My spine—the one that’s already shattered from my car accident—was slammed again by a doorknob she abruptly and forcefully opened on me.
I was kicked in the nuts and then shoved. Hurt. In front of my girls. I never laid a hand in return, I have it on video attached at the end.
And afterward? Nothing. No help. No protection. No apology. I am barred from entering their home now, they will not let me access my video camera I hid, but I managed to make a copy using the cam software before the camera suddenly was taken offline.
I’m in pain every single day.
Dizzy. Weak. On edge. At risk of another seizure.
My memory is failing. My body is failing.
And I still have to fight to prove that I’m not fine.
There’s only one thing left inside me:
Love for my girls.
I won’t let anyone—anyone—try to turn them against me.
They’re the only light in this place I can’t crawl out of. But I’ve become violent, and angry and filled with hate. They dont need to be raised like that.
Let me make this clear:
I wrote this post originally with just my fingers, and WordPress says I violated terms. Which I very much did, so I did have to use GPT to filter this in a more appropriate manner.
I’m sick of being ignored.
I’m sick of being dismissed.
And I’m going to fade quietly into the statistics. Actually, they won’t care enough to record the data.
No where to go and no escape, surrounded by people who hate me and wish I’d go away. If it was not for the fear of being sent to Hell I would end this myself.
This is another pointless post I’ll publish and no one actually read, and if they do, they will probably tell me to kill myself because I use GPT. I think I died in my Ohio car wreck at 26 years old, and I am already in Hell, they just call it Alabama for some reason.
