Some days I get in my own head so deeply that I lose track of where the pain ends and where my words begin. When that happens, people sometimes get hurt — even the ones I care about. I don’t mean to. I don’t even fully understand why. If someone asks how I feel, I tell them… but the truth is, sometimes I don’t think they’re prepared to hear it. And if I’m being honest, sometimes neither am I.
Talking has never been easy for me, especially when emotions run high. The words vanish when I try to speak them, but when I write, they come out — raw, messy, and real. Writing is how I manage the pain. It’s also how I avoid interacting with people when I’m struggling, because I’m not great at it. The words feel safer on paper than in conversation.
Today they come slowly. I’m sitting with a lot of sadness and regret for the things I said yesterday. I was angry — more than I realized — and I let it spill onto someone who didn’t deserve it quite that way. He asked how I was feeling (or did he? I’m not sure anymore), and I unloaded more than either of us was ready for. I don’t regret being honest, but I regret the way it landed.
Right now, I’m tired of hiding how fragmented I feel inside. I’m tired of pretending everything is fine just to make others more comfortable. I’ve spent so much time accommodating everyone else that somewhere along the way, I started losing pieces of myself.
In Other News: E and I are Struggling
We’re fighting — not about anything important in the bigger picture, but small things that carry heavier meaning. He has a habit of reclaiming items he’s given away if the person later throws them out or passes them on. I threw away an air fryer he gave me over five years ago because it was beyond saving, and he wouldn’t let it go. I asked him twice to stop, but he wouldn’t. So I snapped.
I told him to stop, and when he signed off with “I love you, bye,” all I could manage was “bye.” Because in that moment, I didn’t feel loved. I felt distrusted — like I’d done something wrong by choosing cleanliness over clutter.
So I’ve decided if he wants to cook here, he can bring what he needs and take it back with him. If I’m not “responsible enough” to keep his things, then I won’t keep them. Truthfully, I don’t want anything material from him. What I wanted — what I still want — is care. Time. To be seen.
I wanted his undivided attention once in a while, to matter more than work, more than obligation. But instead, I’ve spent years in the background, supporting him quietly while feeling invisible. It hurts to admit that. It hurts more to wonder if I ever really mattered to him the way I hoped I did.
The Hard Part
The complicated truth is this: I still love him. I can’t imagine life without him. I just wish I felt loved back — or even cherished, occasionally prioritized. Instead, I feel like a convenience. A safe place to visit. Someone he comes to for comfort, not someone he chooses for connection.
Yesterday, I felt treated not as a partner but as untrustworthy. As a child. And I am tired. I survived before him, and I can survive again if I have to. I don’t want to… but I will if nothing changes.
For now, I’m sitting with what’s real. Not rushing it. Not burying it. Just writing it down so it stops echoing so loudly inside. Because I’ve learned something, even through the mess:
Being honest may hurt, but hiding yourself hurts more.
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