It’s my fault for being happy for 30 seconds

When I left your house, I was happy.  I was fucking happy.  This should have set off warning bells, but it didn’t.  I went home and I talked to my friends about you and I smiled like an idiot and gushed like a teenager. 

Late night revelation

I switched medications because I wanted to try having a wider range of emotions: I was getting tired of having only numb and number. Although I am coping better since starting this medication, I don’t have that overly medicated zombie-esque façade to which I become accustomed. Quite often it would go through my mind that perhaps this medication was not working.

Sometimes we are just the collateral damage in someone else’s war against themselves.

These are things my ex-husband said to me before I left. These were all said in one day, in less than 12 hours. This is emotional abuse. This right here. I’m done pretending it isn’t. I’m done pretending that I’m not a victim. I am. I don’t want to be. I don’t want to admit that I am. I don’t want to admit that I let myself get this deep. I don’t want to admit that I let someone have so much control over me.