I have noticed my desktop computer isn’t working by the way, since the day you messed up my other items, so I will add that to the growing tab of things you damaged. This is not love.
I didn’t move here for someone to meddle with everything I have worked so very hard for. This is not love.
You said in your email earlier today that you would repay me. Will you really? If you do not promptly repay me, I will be proceeding with legal charges. This is not love. You have one week.
I will not enable you any further. That would not be love.
Go into a program (not a group that meets every now and then, but rather an in-house program for a minimum of 6 weeks, like my sister and people in your own family have urged). There is no shame in that. Everybody I know would support this. And that is love.
Substance abuse as a priority and also domestic violence prevention. For you. Not for me. The way you have behaved is not love. Do it for yourself. That is love.
Your dad enables you. It’s well intentioned, I'm sure, but it is not love. His ‘help’ will destroy you. And you feed off this. This is not love.
I do love you and want the best for you, but I cannot deal with your behavior anymore.
By refusing to be with you, I am showing you love. You may never understand it, or you may choose to ignore it, but this is love. I hope one day you do realize that.
I also love myself and I do not want to die bc of you. That is love. To both myself and to you.
Life can be easy and fun with what we can control. And what I have learned is you don’t actually like—let alone love—me at all. You love your impulses and your rage. Your cigarettes and alcohol, and your anger at people who you met before me that you choose to project onto me. That is not love.
This email is love.
Soon after, I receive a response.
Timmy:
I love you. I’m going to get the medicine. I’ll go to therapy. I’ll change for you.
I just need one more chance.
Each message from Timmy—of which there are many—is carefully crafted to claw at my empathy, my hope, my exhaustion. He knows the buttons to press—the promises that once made me believe we could have a future together where I could find peace. But I’ve heard these words before.
Over and over.
I know where they lead.
LATER
Timmy:
You said the email is love. I know I need to change. I’ll do anything. Please don’t give up on me.
He calls me his soulmate, saying he’ll devote his life to me. He spins a future filled with laughter, support, and shared dreams. He promises to fix the damage he’s done, to finally help me with the work he’s only ever sabotaged.
But it’s all about him.Hisfeelings.Hisfears.Hisneeds.
Not once does he truly acknowledge the toll his behavior has taken on me—the shattered trust, the bruises on my body and soul, the dreams I’ve had to put on hold just to survive him.
And then, the pivot—blame disguised as vulnerability.
Timmy:
I’m so lost without you. I need your support to get better.
You’re my world.
I can’t do this without you.