💔 They Called Me Jezebel: A Love Letter to Survivors Who Still Can’t Breathe Free

They Call Me Too Much. Too Sensitive. Too Weird.

But they don’t know that a bird chirping near me can make me cry—not out of sadness, but recognition.

Because for years, I wasn’t seen.

When You’ve Survived the Unthinkable, the Smallest Things Break You Open

Now the lizards come out when I hum.They keep me company on the porch.

And I swear, sometimes, when the wind brushes my cheek, it feels like an apology from the universe.

But here’s what they really don’t know—

• Why I cry when I see a baby take their first steps.

• Why I weep when someone laughs so hard they snort.

• Why reunions break my heart wide open.

  
  

From Age 21 to 22, I Was Trafficked.

And No One Knew.

I was a college student. I worked two jobs. I smiled in public.

And I cried silently into my pillow at night, begging God not to let me wake up.

I was the quiet girl with the pretty smile…and a gun in her nightstand.

Not for myself—but for the man who made me live in terror.

I held it once. It clicked faster than I expected. And I never wanted to hold it again.

The Word That Cut Deeper Than Any Wound

I was drugged. Gaslit. Branded with labels I never asked for:

Whore.

Liar.

Jezebel.

That last one—the sharpest blade.

A slur wrapped in scripture. Weaponized in pews and pulpits.Used by a man who wore religion like cologne to mask the stench of his cruelty.

He was a Mormon-turned-Methodist. And I? I was his lesson in shame.

But Then—My Nervous System Said: No More.

One day, something shifted. He screamed about my “sins.”Accused me of sleeping with married men.

But something wild cracked loose from my throat—a laugh. Raspy. Deep. Unfamiliar. It frightened even me.

But it terrified him more.

I Walked Out of Hell and Into Myself

I packed. He yelled the same tired curses.

“You’re a jezebel. A liar. Your parents will never believe you.”

But this time, those words? They were proof I was free.

Because I believed me.

I walked out of hell and into myself.

Now, I Choose Me. Fiercely. Tenderly.

Now?

I cry at birds. Laugh too loud. Kiss the sun every morning. And fall madly, reverently in love with this bruised and beautiful world.

Because now—I choose me.

I love me. Fiercely. Tenderly. In all the ways I used to beg others to.

A Love Letter to the One Still Surviving 💗

To the one still surviving:

You are not too much. You are not broken. You are not alone.

If your nervous system is still frozen, If you're still pretending to be okay—This is not the end of your story.

✨ I love you.

✨ I believe you.

✨ You can get out.

✨ You can heal.

✨ And yes… you can fall in love with life again.

Just like I did.— Pepper Joy

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