Esther and the Curse of Medusa

Once upon a lavender dawn, Esther bloomed like wildflowers after the first rain. She was curious, radiant, and soft-spoken—alive with hope, her heart tethered to beauty. She saw magic in people, believing love to be a sacred healing balm. But life’s rhythm doesn’t always match the cadence of our spirit. Like Persephone drawn to spring, she stepped into what she thought was a sanctuary—only to discover it was a snare dressed in roses.

Sanctuary Turned Snare

Joey entered her life like an artist—charismatic, intense, and attentive. Every word from him felt like a carefully selected brushstroke painting her soul in validation. She thought she’d found someone who understood the very architecture of her mind. That intoxicating attention wrapped around her like ivy, fragrant and alluring. What she didn’t see was the poison coiled beneath its beauty.

In the beginning, Esther was all light—sun-warmed laughter, clinking glasses with friends, impulsive color choices that mirrored her joy. She laughed freely, sometimes too loudly. She wore mustard yellows and sunset pinks, hosted spontaneous get-togethers, spilled warmth into every space she walked into. That was her crime.

At first, he watched her like she was art. Admired her like she was air. But admiration turned to dissection far quicker than she realized. His gaze, once adoring, began to narrow. “Why do you laugh like that in public?” he’d murmur, eyes darting sideways.

“Why sit like that?” he’d ask with a raised brow, like a teacher correcting posture. Her palette of colours became "too loud," her meetings with friends became interrogations.

“Why meet people all the time? All The attention has spoiled you. Can’t you just stay at home?” he’d ask—not with tenderness, but with a quiet accusation that made her chest constrict.

She began to change, slowly, for him. Softened her voice. Muted her joy. Waited—always waited. She'd sit with dinner plates growing cold, texts unread, her hunger pushed aside for a man who’d return home hours later and mutter, “I ate already, I’m too tired.” And retreat.

When she tried to share how that made her feel, he’d tilt his head in practiced disbelief.

“So now I’m the villain?” he’d say.

“Is that what you tell your friends?” Suddenly, her pain was cruelty, her honesty and betrayal.

Her closest friend’s loyalty became suspect.

“Why does she talk to you more? What is she teaching you all this? Why am I not welcome?” he’d ask with false innocence that left Esther spinning.

Her reality was no longer hers. It had been revised in front of her eyes, and she began to doubt her own script.

Her world, once expansive, shrank to the dimensions of his moods. She couldn’t remember the last time she made a decision without flinching first. His money was his, but hers was Theirs. He was permitted privacy, but she was under quiet surveillance.

And still, she stayed,

Still, she tried.,

Still, she loved…

Because every now and then, he’d throw her a lifeline: a compliment, a gentle hand, a memory of who he pretended to be. And she’d dive for it like a breath. But even that became transactional, Conditional and Calculated.

As her inner light dimmed, her body began to mirror the decay—sleepless nights, clenched jaws, a nervous system on fire. And when it showed—when the cracks appeared, when tears wouldn’t be swallowed anymore—he recoiled.

“You’re too sensitive. You twist everything,” he’d say, voice heavy with martyrdom. He made her pain look like manipulation, her breakdown his burden.

And so she apologized!

Again., And again..,

Until she didn’t recognize the voice that said sorry anymore…

This wasn’t heartbreak. This was a psychological war. The slow corrosion of spirit. The kind of soul-sickness that seeps into your bones and makes you forget what peace ever felt like. She wasn’t just hurt—she was haunted.

But the cruelest part wasn’t even what he said to her—it was what he showed to the world.

To her family, he was the ideal man. Polite. Soft-spoken. Generous in ways that glittered on the surface. He laughed at their jokes, remembered birthdays, and touched Esther’s shoulder just enough to seem tender. “You’re lucky,” they’d tell her. “He’s so caring.” And when she tried to hint, to unveil the truth, they’d blink in confusion. “You’re overreacting again,” they’d say, gently dismissive. “Don’t be so headstrong. You always take things too personally.”

And just like that, her suffering was erased—not just by him, but by the people she trusted most. She was no longer Esther, the radiant and warm.

She became Esther, The Moody…

The difficult…

The dramatic…

He didn’t have to silence her; he simply reframed her. And in the echo chamber of misunderstanding, she became invisible.

Gaslighting isn’t just about memory—it’s about identity theft. He didn’t just make her doubt what happened. He made her doubt who she was. When she looked in the mirror, she didn’t see herself. She saw the reflection he painted: unstable, selfish, too much.

The Unveiling of Medusa

Something ancient stirred in her that day—quiet, coiled, and watchful. She didn’t have words for it then, only a flicker of unease when her truth was met with a smirk, when her pain was repackaged as drama. It was as if a shadow had blinked open behind her ribs. Not rage, not yet. Just the first breath of something that would one day have fangs.

She didn’t become Medusa overnight—she was conjured into her. Once a garden of light, she withered under the slow poison of dismissal and doubt. Her laughter, once wild as a stream, dimmed to a hush. Every twisted truth, every unanswered question, birthed a serpent at her crown. Her gaze, once wide with wonder, grew sharp—not to wound, but to guard.

They called her Cold, Difficult and Dramatic…

But she had only grown scales where she once had skin. She no longer begged to be heard. Her silence turned mirrors toward those who hurt her. Her heart turned to Stone as it was the only thing that didn’t bleed anymore.

It hadn’t happened in a day—it took years of small betrayals and strained smiles. Like Medusa, she turned herself to stone before the world could. It wasn’t a curse. It was a shield. She bore not just the weight of fear, but the clarity of truth.

And like Medusa, Esther was not a monster by birth, but by betrayal…

Medusa too was once a maiden—violated in Athena’s temple and then punished, transformed into a creature feared, her hair turned to serpents, her gaze weaponized. That tale wasn’t about evil—it was about how pain, unprotected and unacknowledged, becomes armor. Esther’s story, like Medusa’s, was rewritten by those who misunderstood her rage as madness, her silence as weakness.

When she finally gathered what little was left of her and escaped, the relationship didn’t end—it echoed. Her body stayed in alert mode. Crowded rooms made her flinch. Kindness made her suspicious. She felt guilty for smiling, as if joy were betrayal. Her sleep was fractured, her dreams haunted. Every new relationship triggered hypervigilance.

This we call it Complex PTSD—a slow-burning cancer of the psyche caused by chronic emotional trauma.

The poison ivy of narcissistic love had wrapped around her nervous system. It itched invisibly. Some days she was numb, some days she wanted to scream. Most days, she felt like a hollow version of the girl she once was. She wore emotional armor—smiled too brightly, worked too hard, avoided intimacy, shrank from compliments. She did not trust herself to be loved safely again.

But the truth about trauma is—what breaks can also be reforged…

Healing didn’t announce itself—it arrived in silences. In unshaking hands. In laughter that didn’t feel stolen. It began with naming things: abuse, gaslighting, trauma. She read. She cried. She listened to her body again. A kind therapist sat with her silence. A friend saw through her mask.

She journaled not to remember but to reclaim. She spent months untangling vines that had once felt like love.

One day she stood before the tall, rusted gate of the old community center—the very place where her voice had once been silenced. Her hands trembled, but she didn’t turn away this time. Instead, she inhaled deeply, stepped in, and sat quietly in the corner where she used to shrink into invisibility. The same walls, the same faint smell of chalk and old wood. But something was different now. She was no longer waiting for someone to save her. She had walked back in—not to confront the past, but to reclaim the space it had once stolen.

Another morning she didn’t wake up anxious, a mirror she could look into again without shame, a song she sang without apology!!

And in that moment Esther realized that she had crossed over. She was no longer merely surviving. Her silence had transmuted into language. Her rage had refined itself into discernment. The serpents in her soul now whispered truths. She had turned her curse into a compass.

She began speaking in small circles—first to herself, then to others. She shared not just her wounds, but the wisdom they birthed. She became the woman she had once needed: someone who would not look away from another’s pain, someone who could name the poison and show the antidote.

From Survivor to Lighthouse

Now, Esther stood at the threshold of the old café—the one where he once silenced her with a glare so sharp it cleaved her mid-sentence. She had avoided it for years, walking three blocks out of her way just to keep the memories at bay. But this time, she walked in. Alone. Ordered her coffee. Took the seat they used to share. Suddenly, out of nowhere, his voice echoed from the past as a stranger nearby laughed in a tone that once triggered her.

This time, she didn’t flinch.

She didn’t respond.

She took a slow sip and whispered to herself—not in apology, but in truth: “It wasn’t my fault.”

And something cracked—not painfully, but like sunlight splitting through stone

And so, from ashes, Esther became light!

Not a blaze to burn, but a steady flame—warm, unyielding, and true.

In her glow, others found the courage to speak, to weep, to rise.

Her story was not just recovery—it was rebellion. And for those still navigating the ruins, unsure of where to start, Esther’s journey offers a map—one drawn with truth, tenderness, and time.

Her story is not singular. If you see yourself in Esther’s silence—or her serpents—know that healing is possible. Not fast. Not easy. But it's possible…

So where do you begin?

Slowly. Gently. One breath, one truth, one step at a time…

1. Name the Wound – Understand that C-PTSD is real, often invisible, and deeply rooted in repeated betrayal trauma. Validation is the first balm.

2. Soften the Body – Trauma lives in the body. Gentle yoga, breathwork, and grounding techniques begin to untangle the ivy around your nervous system.

3. Establish Safety – Create small daily rituals that signal safety to your brain—lighting a candle, journaling, cooking, walking under trees.

4. Dismantle the Shame – You are not “crazy.” You are not “too much.” Join survivor communities, therapy groups, or safe friendships where truth is honored.

5. Rewrite Your Story – Journal your pain but also your strength. Track the days you smiled, the boundaries you held, the joy you reclaimed.

6. Turn Back with a Lantern – When ready, share your voice. Mentor, write, support, or simply live authentically. Healing is contagious.

Esther was never the monster. Like Medusa, she was a woman transformed by betrayal—but unlike the myth, she reclaimed her reflection. She now walks with serpents not as curses, but as symbols—of instinct, wisdom, protection.

And, if you’re reading this, perhaps there’s an Esther in you too—waiting not just to survive, but to blaze like a quiet constellation, lighting the way home for others.

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The Esther Triology Part 1 : Esther and the Curse of Medusa