#emotionaldump

When my mom yelled at me to wake up from sleep angrily, and called me a slur in her native language, I cried all the way to school but forgave her when she gave me the cold shoulder.

When my father made me get rid of my cats because they weren't abiding by his rules to his liking in his house, I cried and yelled and called him mean. But now I laugh and politely agree as he says things that I do not agree with.

When my friend got with the boy who caused me so much grief my therapist said I had trauma from it, I never talked to her again but I did forgive her.

It angers me that it's not in my nature to be hateful, it angers me that I forgive so easily that doing anything otherwise feels like torture.

But I see.

I see my mother, unhappy in her marriage. Different beliefs from my father, the older they get the more they realize that they indeed loved each other. But out of comfort, familiarity. And that they never liked one another, but the love was there.

But I see.

I see my father, staying in a country foreign to him even after 30 years, alone except for our company.

Still, it does not excuse the grief and guilt they cause me.

A whiplash of emotions, one day so loving and supportive that my teeth ache. The other day so filled with prejudice and covered up hatred that my heart aches.

They support me, help me, wish for me to be better.

It angers me that somehow they were also the ones putting me in this position.

But still, it seems that I just might be a horrible daughter, I might actually be the problem child they so often yell at me in the midst of their anger, hurriedly followed by kind actions the next day to cover their guilt. Never an apology, at least never one where they actually feel remorseful.

Their half apologies must be accepted in hopes they don't turn angry at me, angry for being hurt at their hurtful actions.

But they have their loving days, they have their good days, for a few days. Until it all comes crashing back.

Then again, I think I am just the problem child. It's me that's rotten from inside out, a poor excuse of a daughter and even poorer excuse of a human being.

The thoughts of a daughter from a healthy family... I suppose.

Ayer hablando con mi mamá le decía que en un momento del día hasta tuve envidia de las celadoras o las señoras de servicio por que Mka estaban ahí y eran felices

Y me daba rabia no con ellas si no conmigo como hpta tanto esfuerzo para que al final me cueste tanto ser feliz

There’s a particular kind of ache that settles in the bones before it reaches the heart — a slow, creeping sort of sorrow that makes everything feel colder than it should. That’s what I’ve been living in lately. A chill that doesn’t quite leave, no matter how many times I tell myself everything will be fine.

He said he’ll never be the same again.

Those words didn’t come with anger or fire... just a quiet finality, the sort that feels worse.

Almost casual, almost resigned.

And somehow that hurt more than shouting ever could.

I kept silent.

Not because I had nothing to say, but because my voice simply wouldn’t come out.

It’s strange how guilt can pull the words straight from your throat, as if speaking would only expose how deeply you’ve already cracked something important.

I keep wondering if this is who I am — if I’m built in a way that bruises the people I love.

If my flaws are more permanent than I’d like to admit.

He said if he changes, he won’t care about me anymore.

As if caring for me is a version of himself he wants to shed.

And that stung in a way that made my chest feel hollow.

He’s hurt me too, but who am I to say anything?

I’ve already been painted as the one who damages without meaning to.

So I swallow it all down, let the bitterness settle somewhere deep, and pretend it doesn’t burn.

There are moments where I want to run — disappear, vanish, slip into the background like I was never here at all.

But I can’t.

Because running would tear us both open in ways we might not survive.

So instead I stay.

Trapped between wanting him back and knowing the version of him I miss might already be gone.

It’s a strange grief.

Mourning someone who’s still here.

Loving someone who’s convinced he has to become colder just to exist beside me.

I’m hurt too.

But I keep it quiet.

British enough to carry my suffering with a straight face, polite enough not to make a scene out of my own heartbreak.

It’s pathetic, in a way — this desperate loyalty to someone who’s slipping through my fingers while telling me he won’t be the same again.

I don’t know what will become of us.

Perhaps we’re already unravelled and just pretending not to see the threads pulling loose.

Perhaps this is the part where we both silently bleed and call it growth.

Or maybe this is simply what love looks like when it’s dying slowly — not with fury, but with exhaustion.

All I know is that it hurts.

It hurts deeply, darkly, quietly.

I thought I knew him. I thought I understood love. But as time went on, it became painfully clear that his insecurities were shaping every corner of our relationship.

He couldn’t trust. Every deleted message, every harmless chat, became proof of betrayal in his eyes. Even when I acted carefully, even when I explained, even when I tried to prevent drama, nothing was enough. His fear of comparison consumed him—my past, my old connections, were always held up against him. Nothing I said could escape scrutiny, nothing I did could escape judgement.

He was hypersensitive. The smallest things became storms, the tiniest mistakes became evidence against me. And yet, he rarely looked inward. Responsibility was never his; blame was always mine. Arguments twisted, facts distorted, intentions questioned. It was exhausting, draining, and relentless.

His past haunted him, still raw from a recent divorce and choices made before we met. That history was never his burden alone—it spilled into our relationship, weaponised to control, to guilt, to manipulate. Even money, a practical matter, became another arena where fear and anxiety dictated his reactions.

And yet, despite all of this, he demanded love, devotion, patience, and understanding. He demanded that I navigate his moods, protect his ego, and forgive his lapses, while my feelings were secondary, ignored, or twisted into evidence of wrongdoing.

I love him, but I cannot fix what is not mine to fix. Insecurity, unchecked, grows into control, manipulation, and emotional burden. I can be patient, I can be kind, I can try—but the lesson here is clear: love is not meant to feel like walking on eggshells, and no one should be held hostage to another’s unresolved fears.

I keep trying to feel real again.

But everything still taste like the past.

Oh, he’s following other girls now the kind that match his desires, like I once did. One by one, he double-taps their photos, the same way he used to flood mine with likes. I bet he’s watching every single one of your stories, without fail. Just like before. He used to be the first viewer on mine. Always there. Always watching.

He probably replies to your stories too, right? Drops compliments, sweet words, little bursts of attention that feel like love bombs. I know. I’ve read them before. I used to be the one receiving those his late-night thoughts, random “you’re beautiful”s, the carefully crafted messages that made me feel like I mattered.

And then it happens you fall for it. You let yourself believe it’s real. You both share the same kind of fantasies, the same dreams, the same vibe. You think it’s fate. You give him your heart. Your soul. Your trust. Because he feels different, right? Real. Kind. Consistent. He listens, he mirrors you, he matches your energy.

But I’ve been there. God, I’ve been there.

I know how magical it feels. How easy it is to believe he’s the one. That you’re safe in this. That you’ve finally been chosen for something lasting.

Until, one day… he just stops.

No warning. No explanation. The likes stop. The replies disappear. The stories go unwatched. Your heart confused. Your mind spiraling. You check your phone and it’s just silence. Cold, cruel silence. Like none of it ever happened. Like you never happened.

And that’s when your butterflies die. Every last one. Just… gone.

And a piece of you dies too.