Something’s wrong.
No.
Something has been wrong.
For a long time now.
Long before me.
I kept telling myself that all relationships go through hard phases, that people get stressed, overwhelmed, tired. I told myself love was about compromise. About understanding someone’s pain even when it spills over. But when did “compromise” become silence? When did “understanding” mean apologizing for things I didn’t do?
I walk on eggshells in my own home. I gauge his moods before I speak. I rehearse harmless sentences in my head before saying them out loud, hoping I won’t say the wrong thing. And when he gets cold, sharp, cruel....
I try to fix it. I try to be softer. I try to disappear a little, so he can feel bigger.
The sickest part is that I still love him.
Always will.
That’s the part I hate writing down. I love him. Or maybe I love the way he used to be? The way he looked at me in the beginning, like I was something rare. The way he held my hand with both of his like it anchored him. That man still exists in my memory, and every now.
But I’m so tired. My chest feels hollow. My smile feels borrowed. I miss who I used to be before.
I don’t think he means to hurt me, not really. That’s what I always say. That’s what I want to believe. But even if he doesn’t mean to, he does. And I can’t keep sacrificing myself on the altar of his “potential.”
I’m not ready to leave. Not yet. I wish I could say I was. But I’m starting to imagine it. I’m starting to believe in the life on the other side of this. That’s something, right?
I don’t want to be afraid in my own skin anymore. I don’t want to confuse control with care, or silence with peace. I want to come back to myself.
Maybe this entry is the first step. Maybe it's a breadcrumb for the version of me that finally gets out.
God, I hope she finds her way.
No.
Something has been wrong.
For a long time now.
Long before me.
I kept telling myself that all relationships go through hard phases, that people get stressed, overwhelmed, tired. I told myself love was about compromise. About understanding someone’s pain even when it spills over. But when did “compromise” become silence? When did “understanding” mean apologizing for things I didn’t do?
I walk on eggshells in my own home. I gauge his moods before I speak. I rehearse harmless sentences in my head before saying them out loud, hoping I won’t say the wrong thing. And when he gets cold, sharp, cruel....
I try to fix it. I try to be softer. I try to disappear a little, so he can feel bigger.
The sickest part is that I still love him.
Always will.
That’s the part I hate writing down. I love him. Or maybe I love the way he used to be? The way he looked at me in the beginning, like I was something rare. The way he held my hand with both of his like it anchored him. That man still exists in my memory, and every now.
But I’m so tired. My chest feels hollow. My smile feels borrowed. I miss who I used to be before.
I don’t think he means to hurt me, not really. That’s what I always say. That’s what I want to believe. But even if he doesn’t mean to, he does. And I can’t keep sacrificing myself on the altar of his “potential.”
I’m not ready to leave. Not yet. I wish I could say I was. But I’m starting to imagine it. I’m starting to believe in the life on the other side of this. That’s something, right?
I don’t want to be afraid in my own skin anymore. I don’t want to confuse control with care, or silence with peace. I want to come back to myself.
Maybe this entry is the first step. Maybe it's a breadcrumb for the version of me that finally gets out.
God, I hope she finds her way.
