One last chance & justice

Hi, my name is Kenzie. — Yup here again, 80 hours of work a week is not getting me close enough, fast enough, and this is not some handout searching like you’d assume, this is a deep sinking river next to a life raft that I’m begging someone to show me before I jump again.

This is the most vulnerable thing I’ve ever written, but I need to tell the truth — the whole truth — because this might be the only chance I have left to finally get it right this time.

From the time I was 2 years old until I was 8, my mother hurt me in ways no child should ever go through — mentally, physically, emotionally. I was eventually taken in by my dad. He was my safe place, my hero, my entire world. With him, I finally felt safe. But at 17, I was hospitalized after trying to take my own life. I was diagnosed with PTSD and bipolar disorder. I thought that would be the lowest point — until the next year, when I lost the only person I had.

On Christmas Day 2018, three weeks after my 19th birthday, my dad died. And something in me broke that day, and has never been the same. I search for him through every place I go to. I’ve been visiting his grave almost every day since, just to talk to him. To ask for strength. To tell him I’m still trying. I lay there for 6+ hours some days just to feel less lonely.

In February 2020, I tried to end everything again. I overdosed on 300 Tylenol pills. I was in a coma for 2 days. But I woke up — and I’ve kept waking up, even when it hurt like hell and I didn’t want to. Even when I was asking god why moments of waking up hoping something happened to me in my sleep.

I moved in with my grandfather. For five years, he gave me stability again. But my brother made life unbearable — stealing my car, turning others against me, and eventually leaving me homeless after I tried to turn my life around by chasing my dream. And the few close friends I had left slowly disappeared, too. Grief makes people uncomfortable, and I’ve watched it happen twice, everyone leaves. They all stopped showing up when I needed them most. My mental health declined and I was diagnosed with BPD, ADHD, PTSD, Bipolar, GAD.

Still, I stayed with my grandpa every single day as his health declined. I made sure he was never alone. I held his hand in his final breaths. Stayed 16 hours the day he passed because letting go of my bestfriend was the most difficult moment of my life. He passed away on December 3, 2024 — just months ago. Before he died, he told me everything he had saved his life was for myself and if I wanted too—my brother too. He shared with me how he wanted me to plan his funeral when he went. His dying wish was telling me/asking me if he left me enough to be okay.

As I’ve shared, because of my grandpas dementia and the will being changed with my biological mom taking advantage of him while I was gone, his final wishes were ignored. The name change to give me what he left was denied. And just like that, the woman who abused me all my life mentally and physically— my biological mother — inherited everything. A woman who was only around twice in his life in six years. Gone out of my life for over 15+ years. She didn’t lift a finger for him. She didn’t even pay for his funeral. He was buried in a cardboard box paid for by the city, while she pocketed every penny.

That broke something in me that I didn’t know could break any further, my bestfriend was tossed away like garbage, and his dying wish was gone.

My mental health has spiraled. I cry more than I sleep. I think about dying more than I should. My therapist makes sure I’m safe every week. I’ve been working 80 hours a week just to survive, until my body gave out completely. I had gallbladder surgery that led to once again more blood clots in my lungs, and I was hospitalized with no one at my side. My brother encouraging death. My biological mom not checking in on me once knowing her only daughter was near death.

And still — I’m here.

Still fighting. Still hoping. Still trying to believe that maybe life gets better.

I want to start over. I need to.

I’m asking for help to raise just enough so I can move away from this city where every corner holds trauma, where I have no safe family or friends, where I’m not sure I’ll make it if I stay. I want to go somewhere new — to build a new life, get a good job, and keep showing up for therapy without financial restriction for healing, get a better life for my dog Pluto, who is honestly the reason I haven’t given up. You guys have seen this wish before—it wasn’t possible with my grandpa living with me again. Now it’s my only wish.

I want a life that doesn’t end in a hospital or a shelter. I want peace. I want space to grieve, to heal, to rebuild.

I won’t touch a penny of this until I hit the goal. I don’t want pity. I am doing this knowing how much backlash is upon me, and knowing it’s coming. I just want a final chance, and to get out of this lifestyle of begging for the next meal or ride online. Because I never deserved that life.

Even $1 is hope.

Even a share is light.

Even a prayer is healing.

Even reading this means I’m not invisible.

Thank you for being here with me, following along and cheering me on, I know it hasn’t been easy to watch.

With love and quite literally everything I have left,

Thank you.