I Built The This Cage, Now I'm Burning It Down

This is a declaration of war. And it's got your name on it, Chad Walker.

You want to know what’s wrong? Here’s what’s fucking wrong:

I am living in my worst fucking nightmare and the only thing worse than being trapped in it is waking up and realizing I BUILT IT. I let you sit there like a king on a throne while I broke my back trying to keep the castle from crumbling, and now I’m standing here in the rubble, and you’re looking around like “who made this mess?”

You didn’t make the coffee this morning.
You didn’t wash your own clothes.
You didn’t check on the animals.
You didn’t check on ME—not when I was sobbing, not when I was gasping for air from a panic attack, not when I was ripping myself apart just trying to keep everyone alive—including you.

And what did you do? You walked past me, looked down, and had the balls to say, “What’s the matter?”
Like you haven’t been tearing me to pieces for YEARS.

You kiss me like a reflex, like muscle memory, like it’s owed. But you don’t even see me. You see the woman who keeps your world spinning, but not the one that’s falling apart right in front of you. And when I say nothing’s wrong, you act offended—like I owe you an explanation you’ll just ignore anyway.

I open the laptop and the first thing I see is a text pop up to you from Jonny. And yeah, I’m nosy—I wanted to know what you were saying to him this time. And guess what? You were accusing him of stealing from you. You didn’t say those words outright, but I know you. I know how you think. I know the way your mind works when you feel cornered.

“Don’t you have school?” That’s how you start the conversation with him. No good morning. No ‘Hey, how are you?’ Just an accusation.
And the kicker?
I KNOW where my child is. Because I’m a present parent. Even in a manic episode. Even when I’m broken. I still care. I still check. I still do what needs to be done.

Jonny told you he was on lunch and had checked in with all his classes like he’s supposed to.
So what do you say next? “Why were you in my room at 9:30?”
No comment about school. Just another accusation.
Jonny, AGAIN, had to explain himself and said he didn’t know—maybe he was grabbing his clothes.
Your brilliant response? “Why would your clothes be in my closet?”

And Jonny, that sweet fucking kid who still tries with you even though you treat him like he’s trespassing on your air, tells you he saw your American flag on the floor and the cats were about to piss on it, so he picked it up and put it somewhere safe.

And what do you say, Chad?
Do you say, ‘thank you’?
Do you appreciate that he saved something that supposedly means so much to you?

No.

You say, “The one covered in piss?”

Are you fucking kidding me?

And you wonder why he wants nothing to do with you? Why he barely speaks? Because every time he tries, you make him feel like shit. Like he’s guilty by default. Like his very existence is a problem you have to deal with.

And then there’s your therapy session. Yeah, I watched it. Again. And maybe I shouldn’t have, but I did.

And you lied. Again. You made me sound like I’m some psychotic, controlling, obsessed wife who just flips out for fun. You left out everything.

Sure, you said I realized in therapy that I was—what was the word? Oh, that’s right—you stumbled over it like you didn’t believe it yourself. You laughed when you finally landed on manic. Like it was a joke. Like I was just making it up as an excuse to be “extra.”

You told your therapist I said it, but not that it’s a real fucking diagnosis. You said it like it was a manipulative ploy. You made it sound like I’m choosing this. Like I have total control. Like I’m choosing to be like this.

And that is what makes me sick to my stomach.

Your therapist asked if I was bipolar.
And you—you who’ve been with me for thirteen goddamn years—said, “I don’t know, maybe.”

You couldn’t even answer a basic fucking question about your own wife. I’ve been diagnosed with bipolar disorder since before I ever met you. You know that.
I’ve told you that.
I’ve told you every time I saw a doctor, every time I was prescribed something, every time I got a new diagnosis or change in treatment.
But you stood there like you’ve never even listened to a word I’ve said. Like I’m some stranger. Like you’re just casually speculating about what might be wrong with me.
You couldn’t even be bothered to remember one basic fact about the woman you claim to love.

You didn’t tell him I was recently diagnosed with agoraphobia with panic, either.
And not because I’m afraid of what’s out there.

No.

I’m afraid of what’s going to happen in here.
In this house.
With my family.
With my animals.
Because I can’t trust you with a single fucking thing I care about.

Because you’d let it all burn to the ground the second it made you uncomfortable or required effort.

I miss the world. I miss the sun on my face. I miss walking through a goddamn store.
But I stay in this house, trapped, because I won’t risk what I love.
I won’t risk leaving them alone with you.

And you tell your therapist I never really went out to begin with?
Yeah. Because every time I did, you acted like a jealous little bitch. You couldn’t handle it.
You cried because you couldn’t get a date to save your life. You hated seeing me happy without you. So, you shut that shit down. You made sure I didn’t have a life without you in it.

But you never tell your therapist that, do you?

You talk about my mental health like I don’t have the right to struggle because I haven’t been to war, or seen death, or whatever horror badge you think you’ve earned.
But newsflash, Chad: YOU are part of my trauma.

YOU are the reason I had a psychotic break.
YOU are the reason I checked the fuck out last year.
YOU are the voice I hear when I’m alone and scared and spiraling. That terrifying, cruel, hateful voice in my head that won’t shut the fuck up?
It’s yours.
And I don’t think it’s ever going to leave.

And the kicker?
When your therapist actually tried to push you a little and asked if it made it any better knowing that I couldn’t control my thoughts in this state—what did you say?

“No. Because she has no reason to think that way.”

No reason?
You lying piece of shit.

I have EVERY reason.

You’ve lied to me. Constantly. About stupid shit. About big shit. You lie when you’re caught. You lie about deleting things. You lie about what you say to people.

I don’t accuse you of cheating—I accuse you of LYING. And you’ve done that over and over and over.

You think I’m irrational? You think I just make shit up?
I found texts.
I found pictures.
I found conversations with other women that you NEVER stopped having even after we agreed to close the marriage.
I found your search history.
I found your Translate app that said: “My so-called wife left me and is living with her boyfriend while I raise her son.”

CHAD, I NEVER LEFT. I WAS RIGHT FUCKING HERE. I HAVE ALWAYS BEEN HERE.

Let’s get something perfectly clear—I would NEVER leave my son alone with you. Not for five minutes. Not for a second. Because I do not trust you with him. I don’t trust you to treat him like a human being, let alone like someone you claim to love.

You’ve lied about him.
You’ve treated him like a burden.
You’ve made him feel like a criminal in his own home.

And the thought of you raising him? Of that boy relying on YOU for anything?

That is fucking terrifying.

But you got one thing right. That son? That boy?

That’s MY SON.

And don’t forget—I’ve had to physically put myself between you and him. I had to use every ounce of my body weight to push you back because you were about to hit him like he was a grown man.

You lost control and I had to protect my child—from YOU.

Do you understand how sick that is? Do you understand the kind of damage that does—to me, to him, to every ounce of trust I could’ve ever had in you as a parent, a partner, a person?

You’re not just someone I don’t trust.
You’re someone I have to actively protect my son from.

And that is the deepest betrayal of all.

And the sickest part?
I thought his father was bad.
But you? You made me question everything.
Because you’re here—physically here—and somehow, you’re still not present.
You’re doing damage while pretending to be a parent.

At least his father didn’t pretend.
At least he didn’t wear the costume of a caring man while tearing everything down from the inside.

You play house and sit on your throne while I take every emotional bullet.

So don’t you dare rewrite history.
Don’t you DARE act like you’ve been raising anyone.

The only thing you’ve ever raised is your voice, your hand, and your fucking ego.

I AM DONE.
Done carrying you.
Done fixing you.
Done loving someone who doesn’t give a fuck about anyone but himself.

I’m not the one who should be ashamed.

You are.

This is your wake-up call.
This is your mirror.
This is your wife—finally done playing the good soldier.

And if you don’t feel the flames yet?

You will.

Because I’m lighting the whole fucking house on fire.

MY house.