She Writes Anyway

I don't know what I'm doing, but I know I NEED to do this.

This blog isn't polished. It won't be pretty all the time. It won't always be soft or hopeful. Some days it might bleed. Some days it might ache. But it will be real.

I'm a mother. I'm a babymother with supposed promises of one day becoming a wife. But for now, I'm just a woman. a woman who used to feel beautiful, wanted, sure of herself, and chosen. Now, I mostly feel invisible. I've stretched my body, my mind, my heart, my time, my soul – for a love that doesn't always hold me back. For a life that doesn't always feel like mine anymore. Or something that I even truly want.

I live with a man who says he loves me, but forgets to see me. He insists I be in the same room with him, just for him to ignore me. He talks to me and I must respond quickly and with the correct response and tone to his liking, but picks and chooses when to answer me. He puts on a facade when my mom is around and pretends to be the perfect “son in law”, but as soon as she leaves, he makes me feel so small. He loves to brag about how sexy he is and how handsome the son is that I made, and how he loves me for that, and I wonder if that's the only reason he came back around. If that's the only reason he even still wants me or sees me at all. Even though I shouldn't wonder because he's told me during one of his anger bursts, that that's the truth. Every day I wonder “is this truly what I want? What happens if I spend forever with this person?”

I look in the mirror and don't recognize the woman staring back. I am not who I used to be. I used to be strong. I used to know my worth. I used to never get phased by a man who mistreated me. I used to move on and put me first. Truth be told though, I'll never be her again – and honestly, that isn't the goal. She was selfish and self-fulfilled, as she should be, because she had no real responsibilities. I'm a mother now, with a child to think about, a son who deserves to have both parents. So the goal now is to become someone even deeper. Even stronger. Even softer in all the ways that matter.

I tried talking to my sister (who is usually my safe space) about it yesterday and she ended up telling my mom, and my mom confronted him. And that looked like him pretending everything was okay in front of her. And then threatening to leave and never come back in the middle of the night, if I got up to strike 3. Mind you, he's only been here less than 4 days and I've somehow already on strike 2.

But I'm tired of walking on eggshells and not having anyone to talk to about it.

I'm tired of pretending to be okay. I'm tired of only sharing the filtered versions of my pain with the world. So I'm going to write. Messy. Honest. Mine.

This space is for me. And maybe it can be for you, too – if you've ever felt like love forgot you, like your body betrayed you for wanting something that wasn't good for you, like the life you're living isn't the one you dreamed of. But still...you breathe.

You mother.

You survive.

And you write anyway.

Welcome to my truth.

-She Writes Anyway