Since the start of 2024, I've been taking this "medicine."

Not the kind you'd find at your local chemist.

This one is different.

Every morning at 6 AM sharp, without fail, I reach for the bottle on my nightstand.

Next to it, a glass of water waits—never quite enough to wash away the taste.

The liquid inside is clear, odorless, and seemingly harmless.

There’s nothing that makes you question what you’re about to swallow.

It looks innocent.

But that’s what makes it dangerous.

"Just keep taking it," the voices say. "It’s for your own good."

The instructions are simple:

Take when the pain starts.

Double the dose when symptoms worsen.

Continue treatment until… well, they never actually mentioned an end date.

Side effects? Those weren’t listed upfront. But I’ve noticed them creeping in:

Nights when sleep feels like a distant memory.

A chest so heavy it might as well be filled with stones.

Mirrors reflecting a face I barely recognize.

A stomach tied in relentless knots.

Joy—fading before it even reaches my lips.

You’re probably thinking I’m talking about some prescription drug.

I’m not.

This "medicine" isn’t from a pharmacy, and it can’t be measured in milliliters or milligrams.

What I’ve been swallowing, day after day, is guilt.

Pure, concentrated guilt.

And the people pushing this "treatment"? They’re not doctors. They’re emotional dealers, feeding off every ounce of shame they can squeeze into my veins.

The worst part? I was their perfect patient.

Every morning in 2024, I woke up and took my dose. Some days, it was for old mistakes—ghosts from years ago. Other days, it was for fresh regrets—new sins to add to the collection.

The "doctors" would check in regularly: "Still taking your medicine?" "Remember what you did?" "You can never stop. This is what you deserve."

And I believed them.

Why wouldn’t I? They wore masks of concern. They spoke with authority and care. I trusted their diagnosis, never questioning the treatment plan.

But then, last week, something changed.

I missed a dose.

It wasn’t intentional. I woke up late, rushed to work, and left the bottle untouched.

And you know what?

The world didn’t end.

The sky didn’t fall.

For the first time in years, I felt… lighter.

That’s when I picked up the bottle and started reading the fine print—really reading it. What I discovered made my blood run cold:

This "medicine" wasn’t healing me. It was preserving me—in a prison of my own making.

The recommended dose? Just enough to keep me sick. The side effects? Designed to keep me weak. The treatment plan? Meant to last forever.

Here’s what they don’t want you to know: Guilt isn’t medicine. It’s not even punishment. It’s a business model.

And business is booming in 2024.

They’ve got us all lined up, reaching for our daily dose, believing we’re doing the right thing. Believing we deserve this slow poison seeping into our souls.

But today, I’m writing my own prescription:

1. Acknowledge the mistake (once).

2. Make amends (if possible).

3. Learn the lesson (and write it down).

4. Pour the guilt down the drain (all of it).

The "doctors" are furious, of course. They’ve lost a reliable customer. Their warnings grow louder: "You’ll relapse." "You’ll never truly be better." "You need us."

But there’s one side effect they didn’t list on the label: Once you see through their scam, you can’t unsee it.

Now, as 2024 fades, my nightstand is empty. No bottles. No doses.

The withdrawal symptoms? They’re real:

Sudden bursts of joy.

Unexpected feelings of peace.

A growing sense of freedom.

Uncontrollable hope for the future.

The same people who prescribed guilt are now diagnosing me with "dangerous self-acceptance."

Let them.

I’m done being their patient in the profitable practice of perpetual punishment.

The bottle is empty. The prescription has expired. The doctor is out. Forever.

P.S. Side effects of stopping may include self-forgiveness, inner peace, and a strange lightness in your chest where guilt used to live.

Are you ready to quit?