“You’re a liar.”
“You’re a whole volcano of pain.”
It’s infuriating. It hurts. And it’swrong.
I rage, because even if I had pulled Timmy’s hair—so what?
I didn’t fracture his skull.
I didn’t give him black eyes or lower his self-esteem.
I didn’t chip away at his sense of self until he doubted his worth. I boosted him up.
No—I gave him a life he could never have achieved on his own. I did it because I loved him.
And what did I get in return? A torrent of abuse. A chorus of‘You’re a cunt’and other insults and blame from him and his enablers.
All I can believe is that his father treated his mother the same way, and Timmy learned by example. I feel pity for her. She seems kind, just beaten down by the men in her life—the one she married and some of the ones she raised.
And I’m resentful. Resentful that no one ever said,“Timmy, you’re fucking up. This isn’t how you treat a woman.”
Instead, they coddled him.
Poor, sweet Timmy. So misunderstood.
Never mind that he’s had six restraining orders filed against him.Six. I can understand one in extenuating circumstances, maybe even two—maybe. But six? That’s not bad luck. That’s a pattern.
Bruh, that’s on you.
And yet, through all this, there have been glimmers of light.
Friends—people who I didn’t necessarily expect—who stepped in and stood with me and held space for me and were justthere.
I’m sure I drove them all nuts at times—for not just leaving.
But at the same time, they understood, and they all played a part in helping me to leave. Alice, Josephine, Stacey and so many more—reaching out when I needed it most.
I’m forever grateful.
I don’t know who sent those anonymous messages of encouragement, but they buoyed me. Someone out there saw my struggle and cared enough to reach out.
Was it a friend?
A stranger?
I don’t know, but their words carried me forward when I wanted to collapse.
They reminded me that I’m not alone. That I’m worthy of more.
I’ve started journaling again. Every page feels like a battle, forcing me to confront the memories, the lies, the manipulation.
But it’s helping.
Slowly.
I’m stitching myself back together, piece by painful piece.
One day, I’ll be whole again.