/ personal

I feel like I’m invalidated. And going crazy. Like I’ve disassociated with the world around me to such an extreme extent that my body is no longer my own, my thoughts are no longer my own, my feelings are no longer relevant or even real.

I know that all signs point to you cheating. You won’t leave. It would embarrass you. It would be open, evident, apparent to your family and that would not do. So you stay. And you tell me that it’s all okay. And that you don’t know what I’m talking about. And all I want is clarity, is validation of my anger and sadness and confusion, but you don’t grant me that. Instead you brush it off, tell me I’m crazy, and redirect the issue towards things that happened over a year ago. The same things. But this time it’s different and I’m wrong and I don’t know what I’m talking about and I’m just crazy.

Am I?

Am I crazy? Am I losing it? God it’s starting to feel like it. It’s starting to feel like this deep, bone-aching depression that has been simmering isn’t even real anymore. Like it has hurt so badly for the past two weeks that it’s not real.

I’ve gotten good, baby. I’ve gotten really damn good at hiding it. Hiding it around you, around friends, around colleagues. I’ve gotten good at biting back the tears. And it’s your fault that I internalize it all, because I can’t talk about it can i? I can’t talk to you about it, all you do is invalidate it and get angry that I dare to question why you were texting another woman. I can’t talk to friends about it, it would expose a dangerous secret that you’ve forced me into keeping.

How many other girls have you forced to do things like this? Am I the only one? Am I one of many? Am I surrounded by a secret multitude that shares the same hurt, and is forced to keep quiet about it? I am left with this, a dead page on an over saturated blog site. Screaming at the top of my fake lungs, to fake people that fake care that I am hurting hurting hurting and I can’t talk about it. I can’t seek comfort from you, my love, the only one that has ever been able to truly comfort me.

But your comfort doesn’t feel real, anymore. Maybe because you’ve spread it all too thin, to other women, and I know I’m not the only woman that feels your hands and your comfort and your reassurance. It does the opposite of help. It damages me more, in the long run.

I can’t leave, either. A new year, a new house, broke as always, nowhere to go and debts larger than anything I’m used to. You’ve got me dependent on you. But even if I could leave, i wouldn’t. I can’t. I don’t want to. I love you. I would rather sit and cry, and hope for things to change, than leave an unfaithful man. How did I become like this. How did I become such a bad feminist. I know I deserve better, but what could be better than ignorance.