Through the Fog

Tag: emotional abuse

  • You’re Married to a Nightmare

    You don’t call it that.

    Not out loud.

    You call it stress,

    a rough patch,

    something every couple goes through

    if they just try hard enough.

    Because nightmares

    aren’t supposed to wear a ring,

    aren’t supposed to sit across from you

    at the same table

    and ask how your day was

    like everything is fine.

    But this one does.

    It smiles

    when people are watching.

    Speaks gently

    in rooms that echo.

    Knows exactly

    how to look like love

    from a distance.

    And you—

    you’ve learned the choreography.

    When to stay quiet.

    When to soften.

    When to shrink yourself

    just enough

    to keep the peace

    from breaking open.

    You measure your words

    like they could detonate.

    You swallow reactions

    before they reach your mouth.

    You become careful

    in ways that don’t feel like you anymore.

    And still—

    it’s never quite enough.

    There’s always a shift.

    A tone.

    A silence

    that stretches too long.

    Something small

    that turns into something bigger

    before you can stop it.

    So you adjust again.

    Call it compromise.

    Call it patience.

    Call it love.

    Anything

    but what it feels like

    when the lights go out

    and you’re left alone

    with the version of this

    no one else sees.

    Because how do you explain

    that the person

    you promised forever to

    is the same one

    you brace yourself for?

    How do you leave

    something that still

    looks like a life

    from the outside?

    So you stay.

    Not because it’s easy—

    but because it’s complicated,

    and untangling it

    feels heavier

    than carrying it.

    But deep down,

    beneath all the reasons

    you’ve built to justify it—

    you know.

    Love isn’t supposed

    to feel like survival.

  • “You’re Really Gonna Cry, Brittney?”

    Photo Credit: Louis Galvez

    You didn’t raise your voice.

    You didn’t have to.

    You just smiled

    and rearranged the truth

    until I started apologizing

    for things you did.

    You said I was sensitive.

    Dramatic.

    Confused.

    You said my memory had holes,

    that my feelings were exaggerations,

    that my pain was inconvenient.

    And slowly—

    I believed you.

    I started second-guessing

    my own reactions,

    replaying conversations

    like crime scenes,

    looking for proof

    that I was the problem.

    You taught me how to mistrust myself.

    How to ask permission

    for my own emotions.

    How to swallow hurt

    and call it maturity.

    When I cried,

    you called it manipulation.

    When I asked questions,

    you called it paranoia.

    When I needed reassurance,

    you called it neediness.

    You were always so calm.

    So reasonable.

    So sure.

    And I was always unraveling,

    wondering how I could feel so wrong

    while you felt so right.

    You erased things gently—

    a sentence here,

    a moment there—

    until my reality felt slippery,

    like trying to hold water

    with shaking hands.

    I started keeping quiet.

    Not because I had nothing to say,

    but because I didn’t trust

    what I knew anymore.

    And that’s the cruelest part:

    you didn’t just hurt me—

    you made me doubt

    my ability to know

    when I was being hurt.

    But here’s what you didn’t count on.

    Memory comes back

    when distance does.

    Clarity returns

    when the noise leaves.

    And truth—

    truth is patient.

    I remember now.

    I remember how my body reacted

    before my mind caught up.

    I remember the way my chest tightened

    every time you said,

    “That never happened.”

    I wasn’t crazy.

    I was responding to lies

    wrapped in softness.

    I wasn’t broken.

    I was being bent.

    And now,

    I choose myself again.

    I trust the voice

    you tried to quiet.

    I believe the version of me

    who knew something was wrong

    even when she couldn’t explain it yet.

    You don’t get to rewrite me anymore.

    I know what I lived.

    I know what I felt.

    And I no longer need your permission

    to call it what it was.