I had never been in a relationship with someone who both spoiled and protected me—who would fight for me, stand by my side, no matter what. Not my parents. Not my marriage. I have been “loved,” but never by someone whose presence felt unwavering and unquestionable—someone whose commitment was to stand with me without prompting, without condition.
Until him.
He loved me fiercely and generously, or so it seemed. He spoke the most magnificent promise:
“I love you. I would do anything for you under any circumstance.”
I clung to those words like an anchor—something I had waited my whole life to experience.
And then, suddenly, it was no longer true. Because he decided so.
Now, I am left with the hollow ache of unworthiness.
I am easy to let go of. Easy to discard, betray, abandon. Sometimes, I wonder if I was made for it—programmed to be left behind. Even my children, in ways that cut the deepest, have been nudged away from me, as if the universe—their father, my family—is working to erase me from their story.
And here I am, clinging to what remains of this relationship. Feeling loved much of the time. Unraveling in doubt and fear in the hours or days between texts and time together—willingly serving as a placeholder while he searches for someone more useful, suitable, worthy.
But I am working hard—in therapy, in healing, in choosing myself.
To not throw myself away.
