It’s weird, isn’t it? The way we stay. In places that bruise us. With people who sharpen their tongues and call it teasing. In stories where we’re always the villain, even when we’re the ones doing the saving.
We call it love. Because they remembered our birthday. Because they brought us water after setting the emotional house on fire. Because once, they taped a cartoon bear next to a picture of our dog and smiled like that counted as proof they cared.
And for a moment, it did count. Because as much as misery loves company, hope’s a sucker for sentiment. Because survival teaches you to treat crumbs like cake. And because when you’re that hungry for softness, even manipulation feels like a massage. And breadcrumbs feel like a whole damn loaf.
But survival isn’t safety. Silence isn’t peace. And shrinking to fit someone else’s comfort zone? That’s not selflessness. That’s conditioning. That’s domestication in a pretty dress. That’s taming. And you’re not a damn show pony.
I used to think sobriety meant being spotless. As if once I deleted the vodka, the damage would vanish with it. Poof. New me. But sobriety doesn’t scrub the rot. It just wipes off the gloss. And what’s underneath? Oof. It’s jagged. Loud. Unapologetic. It’s the version of you that flinches when a phone buzzes or pre-rehearses every sentence like it’s a court statement. Not to be understood – just to avoid punishment. That’s not stability. That’s survival in a thrown together, last-minute, fucking shitty Halloween costume.
And here’s the kicker: I’m not perfect. I’m not your Pinterest recovery project. I have scars and some stretch marks and a smart mouth I’m not sanding down for anyone anymore. But the version of me he imagined – conniving, untrustworthy, too much, too loud, too everything – that girl doesn’t live here – she never fucking did. Not in this house. Not in this healing.
The truth? The hardest part of healing wasn’t leaving him. It was meeting myself again after years of bad press. Finding the girl under the rubble of gaslighting and guilt. The one who used to laugh without bracing. The one who wasn’t always waiting for the slap behind the smile.
And now? Every time I choose her, I choose her gently. Not out of rage. Not out of revenge. Just… love. Because she’s still here. She never left. She just went quiet for a while, waiting for the noise to stop.
There’s a moment in sobriety no one warns you about. When the quiet gets louder than the chaos ever did. When your trauma walks back into the room wearing your ex’s cologne. When you realize that sometimes the worst parts weren’t the fights – but the apologies you gave for flinching.
But clarity, as it turns out, is not cute. It doesn’t hug you and say, “Good job.” It slaps your shotglass out of your hand and says, “Look.” And yeah, sometimes I miss the blur. The soft edges. The lies. Because truth? It’s got elbows. But at least it doesn’t gaslight you. And maybe that’s why healing feels so lonely. Because when you finally stop begging for scraps, everyone who only came to feed on your hunger disappears.
Let them. Fucking. Just fucking let them.
Because here’s the thing no one tells you in the “you complete me” bullshit era: you don’t need a romantic relationship to feel whole. (And honestly, how much of it was even romantic? Candlelit arguments? Slow-danced guilt trips?)
You need you. And maybe a mom who answers on the first ring. A best friend who texts “home?” when they know you’re spiraling. A dog who doesn’t care what you’ve been through, only that you’re there. A sister-friend. A friend-family. A “we survived this shit together” kind of crew.
Support systems don’t need to sleep beside you to save you. They just need to remind you that you’re worth saving.
You’re not a buffet. You’re not an emotional all-you-can-eat. You’re the damn story. So no, I don’t need him to believe me. I don’t need a stamp of approval from the same hands that broke me. I don’t need to be quiet so someone else can feel loud. Because the mirror doesn’t lie – even when you do. And the girl staring back? She’s mine now. She’s got way better hair, a smart mouth, and finally – finally – her own damn key.
She’s not here to be saved. She’s here to slay. And sugar, she’s just getting fucking started.
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