*PitOfDispairFromHelping

Hi, my name’s Andrew  

And I don’t know how to do this. I’ve never asked for help like this in my life. I’ve always been the one people came to. I was raised by the golden rule and lived it—even when it hurt. Especially when it hurt. I’ve gone without. Pulled from nothing. Held things together quietly, humbly, without expecting anything in return.

So just writing this is hard. But right now, I don’t have anywhere else to turn.

This past year has taken everything from me—not just money, but my health, my clarity, my confidence. My breath.

What hurts most isn’t what I lost—it’s how much of it I gave willingly. For love. For people I care about. Because I believed the energy we put out would come back. That if I just kept showing up, things would work out.

That belief nearly cost me everything.

A few years ago, I left my job as a merchant marine after five years sailing the Great Lakes. I did it to care for my grandmother—my best friend—and to build something more rooted. I never made it past third grade, but I’ve always figured things out. I taught myself investing, learned how to build a life where I could show up for my family and still contribute.

I drove Uber to make ends meet and have the flexibility to care for her. Slept on her pull-out couch for two years in that one-bedroom apartment.

We were an odd couple, but we loved each other. I miss her every day. She saw how committed I was to breaking out of survival mode. She’d tell me I’d be the one to take care of the family one day. We used to laugh about how often I’d see 11:11. She even learned Facebook in her late 80s just to message her grandkids. To me, she’d say, “Saw 11:11 again…” It became our thing.

I moved out after getting engaged—which didn’t last—but one night ended up back at her place. I’d driven an hour to a late AA meeting that I somehow knew would be closed. Something told me to go anyway. And when it was, I stopped at her place nearby. Let myself in with the spare key.

She didn’t know I was there. That night, I woke up to her screaming in pain.

She couldn’t move. I helped her to the bathroom, cleaned her up, sat with her as she rocked in agony. Called EMTs, who hesitated because of COVID. Eventually, we got her to the hospital.

That was the last time I saw her.

They said something had twisted inside. Only her daughter—my aunt—was allowed in. She told me Grandma had woken up, wasn’t in much pain anymore. She asked for a sip of water, leaned back, and just… left this world.

Just like that.

She was still driving at 90. Still full of light. She was my rock. And I still talk to her when I need to.

Everything I’ve done since has been rooted in who she helped me become. I try to live how she did—grateful, generous, hopeful. She couldn’t stay mad more than a second. Nobody could find joy like she could, no matter the situation.

Not long after she passed, I entered one of the hardest chapters of my life. I was engaged, doing everything I could to support my fiancée and her daughter, who I loved like my own. But during the pandemic, she was prescribed Xanax and other meds—doctors handed them out like candy—and everything spiraled.

She changed. The addiction took hold. In a few years, there were six totaled cars. I was constantly picking up the pieces. Paying for repairs. Keeping the lights on. Feeding her daughter. Trying to keep us all afloat.

I tried everything to help her. Detox programs. Treatment centers. Energy workers. Private counselors. Every lead someone gave me, I followed. Some helped briefly. Most didn’t. The stress nearly broke me. But I stayed. Because I believed in her. In love. And because I didn’t know how to walk away from someone I promised to protect. Even when the pills turned her into someone I didn’t recognize. I took a lot of abuse—but I knew it wasn’t really her.

At the same time, I was working under a boss who dangled bonuses and promises that never came. Any time I got close to saving a little, another crisis wiped it out.

The only thing that kept me going was XRP.

I found joy researching it. I believed in what it could become—not just for me, but for the people I loved. I built my position over five years. Twenty bucks here. A hundred there. Sometimes more, if my boss came through. My dad pitched in when he could. It gave us something to work toward together.

Eventually, we built up close to 65,000 XRP. Bought in between 17 to 60 cents. And I always told myself—this is the way out. And some I had to touch after I was told it would be ok to do so. To keep the cards paid. As you will read.  

And if I still had it today—it would have been. I wouldn’t be in this mess at all and I wouldn’t be dreading telling my excited father and family that because of my heart, our future that we planned for is no more  

I say that with a lump in my throat. Because I made it through the hell of these past years clinging to that hope. That if I stayed disciplined, stayed patient, it would all pay off. And we were right. It *did* rise.

But not before I gave it all up to help someone I cared about.

Now I’m sitting here, crying from the depths of my soul. So numb I can’t even produce a tear.

In 2024, I reconnected with an old friend I hadn’t seen in almost 15 years. Back in 2021, I’d introduced him to XRP. We talked online about investing, learning, building a future. He took it seriously—staked his XRP in a compounding system, kind of like a crypto CD. It grew steadily. It worked. So he reinvested and built a life-changing position.

Then cancer hit. While he was out fighting for his life, his business partners betrayed him. He’d made them equals in his company. While he was gone, they voted him out. Seeing the massive contracts available and my friend unable to work. And Somehow they sleep at night. His income disappeared. His family was in crisis.

Then he showed me what he had locked up—his XRP was staked and inaccessible for a set time. He said, “If you’ve got anything to spare, I’ll try to grow it with the same method. We can split it. I just need to survive until the unlock.”

He knew I was struggling too. And I hadn’t touched my investment, even for myself. I told him I didn’t want half. Not because I didn’t trust him, but because I’ve seen what money does to people. I said, “Just get me back what I gave you. That’s all I care about.”

He agreed. So I sent some.

Then life happened. On both sides. Bills. Emergencies. Health. But while I still wasn’t using the XRP for myself, I kept sending more to him.

We stayed in constant contact—talking, planning, calculating. He showed me the balance regularly. Told me not to worry. That when it unlocked, we’d be okay. That if I had to dip into it for bills, he’d cover it. “You’re saving my family,” he said.

And I believed him. Because I was doing the same.

It started small. But I ended up sending just under 50,000 XRP.

He was about to lose his house. His cars. He’d already lost his business. He was still recovering from cancer, which he’d managed with diet changes and holistic treatments. And I believed he deserved a second chance.

I even added them to my Apple Card when things got tight—using my $700 weekly paycheck to keep us all afloat: him and his family, my ex and her daughter, and me. That card became a lifeline. I kept going because the unlock date was close. I just had to hold on a little longer. I even then somehow was approved for another card  which was good  because his father is stage four cancer  and I couldn’t bear the thought of him not seeing his dad before he passed  and so I allowed him to use that card to take that trip  … EVERYTHING I do has been from the heart  and now my heart is in pain  

Then the date came—and everything collapsed.

The platform he used—KuCoin—had kicked out U.S. residents. They limited access and said assets could only be retrieved through customer service. It would take 30–60 days, they claimed.

We started the process. For over a month, he jumped through hoops: identity checks, security protocols, endless back-and-forth emails. Finally, he got access to an asset claim page.

But when he logged in—nothing. The balance was gone.

No direct line to reach anyone. Just email chains with days between replies. Then came the worst message: KuCoin said the assets had been withdrawn *before* the U.S. deadline.

That wasn’t true. The unlock date was after the deadline. And he was told the fixed-term stake would still be honored. That once it matured, he could reclaim it.

But now they were saying it was gone. And there is no way to prove otherwise.

Almost 90 days later, we’re still getting nowhere.

I’m broke. My tank’s on E. I’m skipping meals so I can put what little credit I have left toward the kids, the bills—whatever I can.

Every morning, I have to will myself out of bed with a pit in my chest. The runway’s almost gone. I’ve got maybe two weeks left. And even that feels like wishful thinking.

I know what this sounds like. I know how it reads. But please understand—it wasn’t reckless. It was intentional. Careful. I trusted someone I loved like a brother. Someone I knew would’ve done the same for me.

That’s who I am. I spring into action when people need help. Even if it breaks me. I’ve always done that.

Now I’m in a sinking boat. We all are. And I’m the only one who had a bucket. But I can’t bail the water fast enough anymore.

Week after week, I watch XRP rise. And I see everyone I helped get into it finally reap the rewards.

And I can’t explain the pain of knowing that loss is mine to carry.

I’ll live with it the rest of my life. I let my father down—he contributed what little he could. He’s 65, still climbing ladders and banging nails, with no retirement. I let my family down. This was our shot. Our plan. Our future.

And it’s killing me.

My health has unraveled. I’ve been dealing with daily stomach and chest pain for years. Dry heaving. Vomiting. If I breathed wrong, I’d throw up. Couldn’t sleep unless I pressed towels into my stomach just to dull the ache.

I saw every doctor I could afford. Tried every holistic fix I could find—fasting, juice cleanses, manual stomach manipulation. Nothing helped. I was convinced I had a hiatal hernia, but couldn’t get confirmation.

Then came February 28th.

I woke up in pain. Real pain. Couldn’t breathe. Cold sweats. But I still went to work. Because that’s who I am. I made it through the day. But when I got home, I couldn’t sit, lie down, or even take off my shoes. I could only stand.

Finally, I called my mom and told her I had to go to the hospital.

I’m uninsured. I knew the bill would crush me. But I didn’t have a choice.

They ran everything—EKG, CT scan. Morphine didn’t touch the pain. An endoscopy revealed the truth: severe esophagitis and a hiatal hernia. Years of acid and reflux had worn my esophagus down. They told me if it doesn’t get under control, it could rupture.

And that would be it.

Now I’m on medication. If I can afford it, I’ll go back in a few months for another scope. If it hasn’t improved, there may be nothing else they can do.

I don’t qualify for assistance. And now, on top of everything else, I’ve got medical bills I can’t pay.

My taxes are a mess. My old accountant passed away before finishing everything. Turns out nothing was filed correctly. I lost credit for what I overpaid. Now they say I owe nearly $5,000—not counting this year. The statute of limitations ran out. And now I’m out of time again with 2024. I need to pay someone just to file an extension—but I can’t even afford that.

I sold a tiny cabin my dad and I worked on for 15 years. We gutted it, hauled coal out of the basement, faced the chimney with mine rock. It was ours. It held memories. But I had to sell it to keep him afloat. And now taxes are owed on that too.

I pawned my engagement ring. Sold the silver my grandfather left me. Just to get by.

And I’m still here. Still standing.

Still trying to understand how living by the golden rule landed me in the worst shape of my life.

And now I’m the one who needs help.

I can’t ask to be made whole. If I still had what I gave, I wouldn’t be asking. It would be worth nearly $120,000 today. Instead, I’m in debt. With nothing but the weight of how I let everyone down. My dad. My family. Myself.

Why do the people who hurt others get ahead, while the ones with hearts are left holding the dirt?

I don’t even know how I’m asking at all. It hurts. I feel like I’ve lost the will to be awake. But I can’t check out. People count on me. Even if I failed them. Even if I ruined their future by trying to protect someone else’s.

I just need breathing room.

Time to stand up again. Figure out what’s next—for me, for my family, for everyone I’ve tried to keep afloat.

Fifteen thousand dollars won’t fix this. But it would stop the bleeding. Clear the credit cards. Get the extension filed. Cover bills for a few more weeks. It’s a life raft. And I need one. Just a little air so I can find a way forward.

If you’ve made it this far—thank you.

And If all you can offer is a prayer, that’s more than enough.

With love,  
Andrew