I came from a broken home and somehow grew up only to build another one with my own bare hands. That’s the part nobody understands. I wasn’t trying to destroy love — I was trying to finally feel safe inside of it.
When I was six months pregnant, terrified and emotionally alone, I came to you softly. I told you I felt like we were becoming roommates instead of lovers. I wasn’t attacking you. I was begging for connection. And instead of pulling me closer, you looked at me and said, “If I’m so bad, why are you with me? Go be with your ex.”
That should’ve been the moment I left.
But I stayed because I loved you more than I loved myself.
Two days after giving birth to our son, my stomach freshly cut open from a C-section, I woke you up crying, asking if you could please help me put my underwear and socks on because I physically couldn’t bend or move right. And instead of helping me, you got angry and told me to do it myself. I remember crying and walking to the other room where my mother was holding my newborn son, begging her to help me because the man I loved wouldn’t.
That pain never left me.
So when our second baby came, I stopped asking you for help completely. I swallowed pain pill after pain pill just to survive the recovery because I would rather suffer in silence than feel like a burden to you again. That’s how unwanted you made me feel during the most vulnerable moments of my life.
And somehow I’m the “crazy” one.
You labeled me manipulative. Narcissistic. Toxic. Insane. But what you never understood is that people don’t wake up broken overnight. I wasn’t “crazy” when you met me, right? None of your exes were “crazy” when you met them either. Funny how every woman only becomes crazy after loving you. Maybe it’s not insanity. Maybe it’s what emotional inconsistency, invalidation, abandonment, and manipulation does to someone slowly over time.
You wore the mask of a calm, understanding man in the beginning. Someone safe. Someone emotionally mature. Someone I could tell anything to. But around six months in, the mask slipped. I started seeing the emotional distance, the coldness, the defensiveness, the way every feeling I had somehow became an attack against you.
You say I always have ulterior motives, but the truth is I spent years begging you just to understand me instead of assuming the worst about me.
Meanwhile your mother was texting you things like:
“She’s nuts.”
“The kids are going to pay the price.”
“I wish you could Baker Act her.”
As if postpartum psychosis wasn’t real just because she never experienced it herself. As if I was some monster instead of a woman drowning mentally after childbirth begging for support. I would never tell my son to abandon his family during postpartum. I would tell him to stay. To understand. To protect the mother of his children while she heals.
Instead, you let outside voices poison our home while I was fighting for my sanity.
And the saddest part is our children are now growing up separated,
