What have I become?
I turn on one of my reality TV shows, my attempt at normalcy as I stare blankly at the screen. But it doesn’t help. The shame is relentless, gnawing at me from the inside.
I could have said nothing. I should have said nothing. But how could I?
His apathy, his refusal to contribute anything of value to this relationship or his life, his constant provocations—it’s like he’s deliberately pushing me to the edge, testing how far I’ll go before I break. And I hate thatI’vebecome the one starting arguments now—thatI’mthe one who yells and screams.
It’s not who I am.
At least, it didn’t used to be.
A few hours later, my phone buzzes. It’s a text from Timmy.
Timmy:
I left because I’m scared of you.
I stare at the message, my vision blurring with anger and confusion as I read it over and over. I mean, I was kind of beinga bitch. Ididyell at him. And technically, Ididpick the fight. But I’m not letting him off that easily.
Me:
No. You want to fuck that ugly bitch.
And blame me.
That’s what you want.
It’s so gross.
As soon as I hit send, I feel a wave of shame crash over me. Who am I? Who is this bitter, angry woman sending hateful texts? I can no longer stop myself.
I’ve never been like this with anyone before, let alone a romantic partner. But now, with Timmy, it feels like all I do is lash out, whether in person or via texts—just like nearly every other text exchange with every other person on his phone.
I’m becoming the very thing I despise—he’s shaping me into a monster, and I’m ashamed because I’m letting myself be driven there.
I hate myself for letting him drag me down to his level.
I’m becoming the problem, or at least part of it.
It’s not who I am at my core, although maybe it is now. And I don’t like what I’m seeing in the mirror.
Three days later, the pendulum swings.
Timmy stands in the kitchen, meticulously weaving ti leaves into a lei. His hands are careful, deliberate, as he threads hibiscus and plumeria into the green braid. “Margaux,” he says softly, his voice full of reverence. “You’re so beautiful. You deserve the world. I’ve picked flowers that match your gorgeousred hair and your freckles. I wanted to make you something to show you how much I love you.”
The warmth in his tone wraps around me like a blanket, soothing the raw edges of my soul. For a moment, it feels like the start of our relationship again—those intoxicating early days when he made me feel special, cherished, adored.
“I love it,” I whisper, my voice trembling.And I do. I love the lei, the gesture, the way he’s looking at me with such tenderness. But more than that, I love the feeling of being seen, of being cared for, even if it’s fleeting.
I let myself sink into the illusion, clinging to the hope that maybe this time he’ll actually change. I’m holding out hope that this version of Timmy, the gentle and thoughtful one, is who he really is.
But deep down, a small voice whispers a truth I’m not ready to face:that version of him was never real.
As I lay my head on his shoulder, inhaling the sweet scent of the flowers he picked just for me, I feel the weight of my own transformation.
I’ve always been someone who uplifts, who loves deeply and forgives easily. But now, I’m unkind. I’m mean.
I’m losing myself, piece by piece, and I don’t know if I’ll ever find my way back.