I hadn’t slept in 36 hours.
Not because I was out partying. Not because of night shifts.
I just couldn’t sleep—my whole life was hanging on one stupid trade.
One trade I knew I shouldn’t have taken.
The market was brutal. Charts looked like they were laughing at me.
MetaTrader open on my laptop. Binance running on my phone.
Both telling the same story:
Losses.
Slow, steady losses that were eating more than just my money. They were chewing at my brain.
Then my phone rang.
“Mom.”
Her name lit up the screen like a reminder—
There’s still a world outside this mess.
Still people who think I’m okay.
I hesitated. Picked up.
“Marc, how are you?”
My throat felt dry.
“I’m fine.”
Lie.
Three days ago, I had already gotten a call that messed with my head.
My baby mama.
She sounded tired, but she didn’t sugarcoat it.
“Marc… Orlando’s consulting again. I need money for food, and for myself. You haven’t sent anything in weeks…”
I didn’t even let her finish. I ended the call.
Not because I didn’t care.
But because I cared too much.
And I didn’t have the strength to hear more.
That call opened a floodgate in my mind—
Bills I had been avoiding came rushing in.
Rent.
Unpaid hospital bills.
Water, electricity, phone.
Even random subscriptions I forgot I had.
And on top of that, I had no money left to trade with.
Nothing.
Trading was supposed to be my way out.
My safety net. My hustle.
I had a plan, a proper strategy.
But I panicked. I messed it up.
A friend told me he was “milking the market.”
Showed me profits. Sent screenshots.
I believed him. Followed his lead.
Biggest mistake of the month.
I overleveraged.
My stop losses were weak.
My entries were off.
I wasn’t trading anymore—I was gambling.
And I was gambling with borrowed money.
I took out loans—multiple ones.
From brokers. From the bank.
Lied about everything.
Now I was in deep.
Twelve hours before the crash, I was still glued to the screen.
Red candles everywhere. My setup bleeding.
I wasn’t thinking straight. Just staring.
Hoping.
I should’ve closed the trade and walked away.
But I told myself I needed the money.
There was nothing to eat. Rent was overdue.
My bank account was empty.
And people around me still thought I was “managing.”
Around 12:30 a.m., I looked again.
Some green candles had started showing.
It looked like things were turning.
I told myself—just hold on for twelve more hours.
Maybe this trade would save everything.
And for a moment, it looked like it would.
The green stayed. The balance grew.
Hope crept back in.
I actually smiled.
Then came greed.
It whispered:
“Stay a little longer. Don’t pull out yet. Let it grow.”
So I did.
Twelve more hours.
I should’ve exited.
But I stayed.
And when I came back...
Everything was gone.
All of it.
Like it was never there to begin with.
No money. No equity. No second chance.
Just an empty screen.
And a sinking feeling in my chest I can’t even describe.
That’s when Mom called.
“Marc, how are you?”
And I said—
“I’m fine.”
Lie.
Because I wasn’t fine.
I was tired.
Ashamed.
Not just because I lost money—
But because I lied to people who believed in me.
I gambled with more than cash.
I gambled with my responsibilities.
With people’s trust.
With my future.
Now all I can do is sit in the silence.
Phone in my hand.
Laptop closed.
No charts. No noise.
Just me.
Thinking about everything I messed up.
And wondering if they’ll ever know the truth.
If they’ll ever understand—
I wasn’t fine.