Justin's Cell Phone now Jeff's?!?Two apartments!?! Why the lies?!?

Justin's Cell Phone now Jeff's?!?

Two apartments!?! Why the lies?!? 

Please Just Tell Me the Truth

I’m not sure if it was you who messaged me from Justin’s phone, saying you were Jeff. I blocked the number—not out of cruelty, not out of anger—but because it felt like crossing a boundary that wasn’t mine to cross. Justin’s space, his life, his relationships—I never wanted to intrude on any of that. I never wanted to trap you in a place you didn’t choose, or trap myself there either. I was there honestly, fully, and with care.

But if that message was you, please—just tell me the truth.

That’s all I’m asking for. Truth, so we can both have peace. Truth, so I can stop living inside questions that never rest. Truth, so that if you want to see me, it can happen without games, confusion, or shadows.

Because what’s happening around me feels unbearable.

The games people are playing with my heart, my trust, and my sense of reality are too much. I’ve done everything that’s been asked of me. I’ve complied. I’ve been patient. I’ve stayed quiet when it hurt. I’ve tried to be understanding, flexible, cooperative. And still, it’s never enough. The rules keep changing. The goalposts keep moving. I don’t know what else to do.

And there’s more—things I can’t keep pretending aren’t happening.

There’s one apartment with our name on it. Then there’s another place on the same street—a condo—with no name attached, but filled with your pictures. Your paintings. And other pieces that feel like unmistakable telltale signs. Two places, side by side, close enough that it’s impossible not to notice. And then your name keeps getting tossed around—casually, repeatedly—from different directions.

I don’t know what it means. I’m not claiming certainty. I’m not trying to invent a story. But it’s been weird. Disorienting. The kind of strange that makes you question your footing in reality.

I wish I could make this up. I truly do. But this has been my life.

What makes it worse is the constant pushing toward a hospital—one that has repeatedly lied to me, violated my privacy, breached HIPAA, and then turned around and told me they have nothing they can do for me and no help to offer. Except, apparently, a room by myself with a guard outside the door “to keep me safe.”

Safe from who?

No one will say.

I tested the room situation. It’s real. And nothing about it makes sense. If there’s a danger, no one will name it. If there isn’t, no one will explain why this keeps happening. I’m just told to “trust the process.”

But this process doesn’t feel like care. It feels coercive. It feels abusive. It feels like something designed to break a person down slowly—confuse them, isolate them, exhaust them—until they stop resisting, or worse, stop wanting to exist at all.

This is not how you help people.

This is not how you protect someone.

This is what you do when you refuse to tell the truth and don’t want to take responsibility for the harm that silence causes.

I feel lost. Deeply lost. And I’m scared of the world around me now in a way I’ve never been before. I need something solid to hold onto. I need clarity. I need honesty. I need someone—anyone—to say what’s actually going on.

If that message was you, please don’t let this stay unresolved. Reach out directly. Tell me the truth—one way or another. Silence hurts more than truth ever could.

I’m not asking for perfection.

I’m not asking for promises.

I’m asking for honesty, so I can find my footing again and figure out how to live in a world that has stopped making sense.