There is no hand of salvation reached out by others. Even if you explain in agonizing detail how deep and painful your mud is, people will only show a brief look of pity before returning immediately to their own warm, safe routines. After all, your life only holds that much value to them. "No one is coming to save me." This brutal realization is the deepest despair a childhood trauma survivor faces, but paradoxically, it is the true starting point of this hellish narrative.
The Despair of Having No Savior, and a Strange Sense of Liberation
Since childhood, we have always desperately wished for someone to appear and end this hell. Waiting for a knight in shining armor or a gentle savior is a survivor’s instinct. Yet, the reality faced in adulthood is cold. People are too overwhelmed carrying their own baggage, and they are rarely altruistic enough to shoulder the abyss of another human being.
Completely accepting the fact that there is no hero to pull you out of the mud is a process of tearful, bloody agony. However, at the very end of that despair lies a strange sense of liberation. The fact that there is no one to save you also means you no longer have to beg for your life on the mercy or sympathy of others. The moment arrives when you don’t even have to care about their rude evaluations, regardless of how cheaply they appraise your life by their standards.
It Is Not "Salvation," It Is "Survival"
Let us set aside the idea that you can only escape this mud if someone throws themselves in to pull you out. Dramatic salvation—where someone lifts you entirely and places you on safe ground—does not exist in reality. What we must do is not receive salvation, but somehow just "survive" inside that mud.
The only way to survive a swamp where no one helps is to stop waiting for anyone’s hand and instead grab onto a rough weed root growing at the swamp’s edge with your own hands. That weed root is not some grand rationality or a magnificent goal.
The Only Being in the Universe Allowed to Appraise Your Life
The price tag people put on your life means absolutely nothing. They cannot fathom even a single centimeter of the depth of the hell you have passed through. You can throw that price tag, evaluated in utter ignorance, straight into the trash.
The sole authority to decide how valuable your life is in this world, and how magnificent the narrative of enduring inside that mud has been, belongs to you and you alone.
It is true that no one is coming to save you. Because of that, it is lonely, and because of that, it is sorrowful. But remember: inside that mud where no one came, you have endured until now relying on nothing but your own breath and your own blood. The vitality of a person who survived alone in a hell where no one came to help is not a realm that weak outsiders, who have lived only on safe ground, can dare to evaluate. You are not standing here because you failed to be saved; you are standing here because you survived on your own.
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