Loving Him Without Losing Myself

 

Chapter 1: I’m Your Wife, Not Your Mother. Grow the Fuck Up—I’m Done Holding Your Hand

Intro: This is the beginning of a new series—what it really looks like to stay in a broken marriage while finally choosing myself. I’m not leaving. I still love him. But I’m done disappearing. Chapter one: the moment I finally opened my eyes and started seeing him—and his behaviors—for what they really are. The moment I began to find myself again.

I don’t know exactly where this is going—but what I do know is that I’m finally waking the hell up. I’m finally ripping the blinders off and seeing things for what they really are. This isn’t love the way it should be. This is emotional quicksand dressed up as loyalty. And I’ve spent too long justifying, minimizing, pretending—surviving. Not anymore. This is the moment the fog clears, and I start my escape from the emotional warfare. Bloodied but breathing, ready to fight for a life that actually feels like mine.

So now that I’m seeing clearly, here’s what really pisses me off: I’ve been blunt. I’ve been direct. I’ve pointed out the problems without sugarcoating a damn thing. And still, I get met with the same passive-aggressive, manipulative bullshit. Every single time—it’s the same predictable script. Hell, I could write his lines for him at this point, and they'd be damn near word-for-word.

I’ve given him step-by-step instructions on how to start fixing this, how to show me he actually wants to change and choose his family over himself. And what’s he done?

Nothing. Except whine, complain, and pull the “You’re right, I can’t do anything right. It’s all my fault” card.

He acts like that’s him taking accountability. LMFAO. That’s not accountability—that’s a fucking guilt trip.

Then he gets an attitude because I’m not playing nice. Because I don’t want to sit around pretending everything’s fine. Because I’m not in the mood to be all cuddly just because he’s suddenly decided he wants to spend time with me now—only because he knows he fucked up.

I get mad and tell him he hasn't even tried to talk to me about any of it. No effort to fix it. And what does this motherfucker say?

“I’ve been sitting here waiting for you to say something.”

Waiting for ME?!For what?! I’m not the one who fucked up. I’m not the one who owes an apology. I’m not the one sulking around the house like I lost my damn puppy.

You don’t get to make me feel guilty for not just sweeping this under the rug again.

This isn’t even about why I got mad in the first place anymore—it’s way past that. This is about way more than you just grabbing the cat by the neck like that. This is about the fact that you never think you're wrong. You never apologize and mean it. Every time I call you out, instead of saying, “Yeah, that’s my bad,”—hell, I’d take that—you twist it into being my fault. Or whine that you’re “feeling blamed.”

You feel blamed because you ARE being blamed—because you keep fucking up.

This is about how you constantly cross my boundaries, and when I speak up, suddenly it’s about your boundaries. It’s about how my feelings always get overshadowed by yours—because you don’t like what I’m saying. It’s about how you manipulate me into thinking you’re changing, when all you’re doing is the bare fucking minimum before sliding right back into your narcissistic bullshit.

I may love you. I may not want to leave you. But hear this, sweetheart: if you want to act like a child, then Mama’s going to treat you like one.

You’re no longer my husband—you’re just another child I have to raise. And unlike you, my actual child knows respect. He knows how to take accountability. So here’s your hard truth: From my point of view, you’re not a partner. You’re a burden.

I don’t see a man I can build a future with. I see a child who’s been allowed to run wild for too long. I see a child who’s about to find out what grounding really feels like.

My silence? That’s not forgiveness. That’s exhaustion. We are not good, Chad. We haven’t been good in a long time.

And in therapy, when I said we had a good week?I lied. Because what you call “good” is me biting my tongue, stuffing my feelings to the side, swallowing every urge to call out your bullshit because I didn’t feel like dealing with your next temper tantrum.

I am—and have been—completely alone in this marriage.

I do all the heavy lifting.

And yeah—before you try to flip the script—let me give you the little credit you do deserve you go to work every day. You make the money. You show up to your job and bring home a paycheck. That’s something. That matters.

But let’s be real—that’s the easy shit. That’s child’s play compared to what I carry every single day.

You get to clock out. I don’t. Ever.

Try being on call 24/7/365.

Sleep? That’s a pipe dream.

I can't even go to the bathroom without hearing mom can you help me with this? Or Babe have you seen my….?

Plus:

I pay the bills. I run the house. I manage the Jonny. I manage you.

I do the shopping, the planning, the organizing. I keep the animals alive. I remind both you and him to feed them like I’m the damn zookeeper in this house.

And then I have to listen to you bitch about taking the dogs out EVERY.SINGLE. TIME. I have to remind you—like I haven’t been juggling every damn thing else all day long.

And you know what? I haven’t told you to clean the dogs’ room in days, huge SHOCKER, that it hasn’t been cleaned. There’s dog shit in every kennel and the whole room smells like death. I mean come on now. You’ve let the dogs in and out, you’ve seen it—and you’ve still done nothing.

Just like you do nothing when I beg you to change. You're taking my love for you for granted.

Well guess what? That coddling love that stroked your ego? It’s gone. It's all tough love from here on out.

I may not leave you—but I sure as hell won’t disappear any more than I already have. I’m going to live my life—with or without you beside me. And it’s sad as hell that I’m going to my best friend’s wedding alone. I’m going alone because I refuse to drag your baggage to her big day.

You won’t be there to ruin it. Not hers, and not mine. I’m scared as shit to go alone, but I will. And I’m going to have the time of my damn life. You? You’ll be home alone, waiting for me to come back. And maybe I will. Maybe I won’t.

Maybe I’ll spend the night out, just to keep you on your toes for once.

I love you. But that doesn’t mean I’ll let you keep controlling me with your sad little stories and your “My wife blames me for everything” sob song.

Maybe if you started fixing the things I’m blaming you for, I wouldn’t have to keep blaming you at all.