It’s August 11, 2024 — and as I type this, I can honestly say I’ve mostly fully processed what I used to call a 20-year addiction to someone I thought was my forever person. There was a time I believed we were destined to end up together. I’ve written about that chapter many times, so I’ll spare the details. What matters now is the clarity I’ve gained and how different things feel today. The truth is, healing doesn’t always announce itself with fireworks or closure ceremonies. Sometimes it shows up in quiet, unexpected moments — like a dream. The other night, I went to bed feeling lonely. Not the kind of loneliness that has you missing someone specific, but the kind that creeps in when you live alone and the silence stretches too far. I wasn’t longing for him — not in my conscious mind. I’ve become fiercely independent, and I truly don’t want a relationship right now. But when you live with CPTSD, your subconscious can be sneaky. In my dream, he was there. Just like old times — holding my hand, kissing my neck, and giving me that look that once made me feel seen. I could feel it all. The love, the comfort, the illusion of safety. But here’s the difference: when I woke up, I didn’t spiral. I didn’t analyze it to death. I didn’t take it as a sign. I laughed. Because I knew exactly what it was — my brain reaching for something familiar to soothe an unfamiliar ache. Maybe it was a trauma echo. Maybe it was just my nervous system running an old script. Maybe it was energy trying to pull me back into a story I’ve already finished reading. I smiled, and reminded myself: he and I were in each other’s lives for a reason — likely to teach us the hard, necessary lessons we needed to prepare for something deeper down the line. We met each other at the level of our wounds, not our wholeness. And now? I go about my day. Free. That, my friends, is what healing looks like. When healing feels like a dream to you, try not to over analyze. It's your subconscious trying to give you a message. Something, or someone, needs healing and release.

It might sound trivial to some—maybe even ridiculous—that I message myself. People might say, "She’s such a loser, messaging herself," or maybe they don’t say it out loud, but that’s what I’ve been used to hearing in my head. Here’s how I see it: I’ve spent so much of my life giving my energy to others, helping them feel good about themselves. Yet many of those people couldn’t have cared less about me beyond how I made them feel. Now, I’m choosing to invest that energy in myself. Growing up and becoming my own parent means building my confidence on my own terms—something I never received from the people who were supposed to nurture me. So go ahead, call me whatever you want. Joke, get mad, or make fun of me. Meanwhile, I’m over here living my life, smiling genuinely, and finally feeling proud of my choices. If that bothers you, that’s your issue—not mine. I’m learning that self-love and self-support aren’t just okay—they’re necessary. While I'm learning to be my own support system, I continue to lose relationships. However, I'm only losing relationships that aren't healthy. Building new ones is the hard part. But I know I got this.

Setting and holding boundaries has been one of the hardest things I’ve had to learn. For most of my life, I was conditioned to prioritize everyone else’s needs, wants, and feelings above my own. The moment I even considered drawing a line—especially with my mother—I was suddenly labeled selfish. Doing anything for myself instead of her wasn’t seen as healthy independence; it was seen as betrayal. I grew up in an environment where my wants, needs, and even likes were dismissed. I was constantly scolded, called selfish, and told things like, “You only ever think of yourself,” so often that I internalized it. Over time, that messaging shaped my behavior. I became someone who avoided upsetting others at all costs. I worked tirelessly to please people, even if it meant abandoning myself in the process. These days, I no longer spend my therapy sessions deep in trauma work. I’ve come so far in my healing journey that I now focus on reshaping my subconscious thoughts. I’m learning to unlearn the harmful patterns I absorbed from my environment. I’m practicing how to hold a positive mindset, grow in self-awareness, and become the person I’ve always wanted to be. Mentally and physically, I’ve never felt better. My life has genuinely improved. But when it comes to boundaries—actually setting them and holding firm—I’m still learning. It’s not easy to undo years of people-pleasing and guilt, but I’m doing the work. Every step forward feels like a win, and I know I’m moving in the right direction. Reclaiming my right to boundaries has cost me relationships. But those relationships were not healthy.

For so long, I’ve tried to be who my mother wanted me to be. I pushed myself to meet standards that were never truly mine, chasing after a version of success that might finally earn her approval. Even now, moments that should feel like victories—like finishing two more classes this week with an A—bring me to tears. Not because I’m not proud, but because part of me still longs for her to see me, to be proud of me too. Writing this down, sharing it, is part of how I work through it. It’s how I begin to untangle my worth from her expectations. I may always carry the ache of what I wish our relationship could be, but I’m learning that my healing doesn’t depend on her validation. Forgiveness, after all, is not just about her—it’s about freeing myself. Forgiveness is a journey I’m still navigating—especially when it comes to my mother. It’s not easy to extend forgiveness when it hasn’t been asked for, and when the hurt runs deep. But I know holding onto the pain only keeps me stuck. What I’ve come to realize is that part of this healing process includes releasing the weight of her expectations—the ones I was never meant to carry. Letting go of unmet expectations isn't easy, but it is absolutely freeing.

Trigger Warning: Mention of rape I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve heard, “It only happened once. It was a long time ago. You were young. Just get over it.” As if the fact that I was raped—even just once—should mean I’m expected to move on as if nothing happened. As if the pain, the confusion, the trauma, and the lifelong consequences can be erased because time has passed. But here’s the thing: once is still too much. And for me, it wasn’t just once. If you’ve read my past blogs, you know I’ve shared parts of my story—stories of being raped by multiple men, more than once, sometimes repeatedly by the same person. But let’s pretend, for the sake of argument, that it was just one time. That single experience would still have changed everything. Because trauma doesn’t work on a timeline or a tally system. There’s ample research proving that early life experiences shape our entire lives, even the ones we can’t fully remember. Childhood trauma embeds itself in our subconscious, where it quietly influences our behaviors, reactions, and relationships. I’ve experienced this firsthand. I’ve woken up at parties without my clothes on. I’ve woken up in places I didn’t recognize, disoriented and confused. And even before I consciously remembered what my father had done to me, my body remembered. I would feel sensations that didn’t make sense, followed by fear, shame, and guilt. That’s what people don’t understand. It wasn’t about arousal—it was about fear, confusion, and a stolen sense of safety. My father taught me the terrifying lesson that fear can be tied to physical responses, and that’s not something you can just unlearn. It’s not something society likes to talk about either. People want to believe these things don’t happen—or if they do, that survivors should stay quiet, especially if it’s “too upsetting” to hear. But that silence is exactly how abuse continues. So no, “just once” doesn’t mean it didn’t matter. “Just once” doesn’t mean I owe anyone my silence. Survivors don’t speak up to make people comfortable—we speak up to make change. To shatter the shame. To challenge the systems that failed us. And to remind others: you’re not alone, your pain is real, and your story deserves to be heard. Let’s keep speaking. Let’s make a difference. Because even just once is still too much. If you or anyone you know are experiencing distressing emotions, please reach out to the crisis text line below for support and advice. You matter! Your story matters! Your emotions are valid and they matter! https://www.crisistextline.org/ If you or anyone you know have been sexually assaulted in anyway, please reach out to the national sexual assault hotline through the link below for support and advice. https://rainn.org/resources

Music isn't just rhythm or a catchy beat to me. It's breath. It's life. It’s something far deeper than just a song you like—it’s a vessel for memories, emotions, and experiences. For me, music is both a blessing and a curse. When I hear certain melodies or lyrics, I’m instantly transported. They say time travel isn’t real—but emotionally, I do it all the time. A song can make me smile and bring back memories of joy and laughter. But just as often, it can make my heart sink, stirring sadness, anger, or grief. I don’t just hear a song—I relive a moment, feel a person’s presence, or revisit a version of myself I’ve left behind. Almost every song I know holds a memory. Even the ones that seem silly at first glance end up revealing something significant—little fragments of my story that still need acknowledgment. Each note brings me back to places and people I once knew, for better or worse. As I continue healing from trauma, especially the kind that lingers like Complex PTSD, the intensity of these musical memories has started to fade. The emotional volume turns down. My heart doesn’t sink as far. My joy isn’t as sharp, my grief not as overwhelming. Instead, I begin to see the growth. I start to learn the lesson tucked inside the memory. Music no longer owns me. I’m learning to enjoy it again—not as a trigger, but as a companion in my healing journey. Still, one thing remains true: I remember every person I’ve ever come across, through music. I am a time traveler, and I always will be.

There was a time—most of my life, actually—when I begged people to stay. I clung to relationships, not because they were good for me, but because I didn’t believe I was enough on my own. I’ve come to see how often people only kept me around when I served a purpose for them. My needs, my feelings, what I wanted—it rarely seemed to matter. And the few who did care? I was so used to being hurt that I pushed them away. But I see things differently now. I’m a kind person—sometimes to a fault. I once gave my shoes to someone barefoot and homeless outside the ER, while I was leaving after a severe allergic reaction to the sun. I was still sick, but I had shoes at home. I had a car to get me there. That’s just who I am—I give, even when I’m not okay myself. So if I invite you into my life, know this: it’s because I want you there. It’s never because I need you. I’ve learned, the hard way, how to stand on my own. These days, I struggle to let new people in at all. But I no longer chase love, attention, or approval. If someone doesn’t want to walk alongside me in this chaotic, beautiful journey of life, that’s okay. I’ll keep going. Alone, if I have to. Because I trust myself now. I accept my quirks, my stims, my imperfections, my successes. I’ve built confidence out of pain. I no longer need anyone’s permission to feel worthy. If someone chooses to leave, I let them go. It just means their role in my story is over. It’s not easy. It still hurts. Some nights, the loneliness and anxiety are louder than I’d like to admit. But even in that silence, my self-respect and self-love speak louder. And that’s what I choose— every time. I'm no longer begging to belong.

There came a moment when I realized something deeply freeing: I don’t need the approval of others—especially not from those who lack authenticity. That awareness changed everything. I began listening more closely to my intuition, especially when it came to people who made me feel uneasy. I stopped brushing off those gut feelings and started acting on them. One of the first steps I took was cleaning up my Facebook. Not blocking—just quietly removing people who no longer needed access to me or my life. It wasn’t out of spite. It was about preserving my energy. Many of these people had a long history of betraying my trust—some even as recently as a few months ago. They had no problem sharing my personal life with my mother, yet carefully avoided saying anything about her or my son. That selective loyalty told me everything I needed to know. Being the “black sheep” of the family, the one labeled difficult or rebellious, means I’ve often been a convenient target for blame, gossip, and projection. No matter how much I grow or succeed, there are people who will always look for a way to discredit me. Why? Because they’ve lost their favorite scapegoat. But here’s the thing: I no longer react—not in public, not even behind closed doors. I simply remove myself. Quietly. Intentionally. Without fanfare. They can continue to gossip about someone who doesn’t exist anymore—a version of me they've constructed for their own drama. If that helps them cope, so be it. Meanwhile, I’m focused on healing, evolving, and staying aligned with my peace. I’m not manipulating or cutting corners to get ahead. I’ve simply done the work. And maybe that’s what really bothers them—the idea that they, too, could rise… if they stopped focusing on tearing others down. If something—or someone—is robbing you of your peace, release it. No explanation needed. Your energy is too valuable  to waste on people who only take. Letting go without the drama means no explanation required. You don't owe anyone anything, especially an explanation that they likely already know the answer to.

It’s easy to romanticize the idea of a giver—someone who pours into others, who shows up, who sacrifices. But let’s be real for a minute: most of us don’t give from pure intention. We don’t always give out of kindness. We give because we want to be needed. Because deep down, we’re hoping for something in return. Love. Approval. Belonging. At least, that’s been true for me. I used to believe the world worked on emotional exchange: if I showed up, if I poured myself out, someone would eventually pour back into me. But I’ve since learned that what I thought was people-pleasing ran deeper than that. Much deeper. What I was really doing was searching for my mother in other people. Because no matter what I did growing up—no matter how good, how helpful, how sacrificial—I was never enough for her. Not then. Not now. And I’ve spent most of my life unconsciously chasing that unmet need. I kept seeking out people who needed to be emotionally cared for, people who were broken in familiar ways. Why? Because that’s what I was trained to do. Raised to do. Survived by doing. I was taught that my emotions made me dramatic. That my needs were too much. That love was earned through service, silence, and self-abandonment. Even as recently as six months ago, I was still in that loop—trying to be everything to someone who wouldn’t have blinked if I disappeared. I thought she was my friend. I thought we had something real. But the moment I stopped performing, stopped being her emotional support system, and started needing something myself, she vanished. And it shattered me. Not just because I lost a friendship—but because I saw the pattern for what it was, and I saw my part in it. It wasn’t until a therapy session just a few weeks ago that I could say it out loud: I’ve been mistaking codependency for connection. And I’m not doing that anymore. Don’t get me wrong—I still love giving. I love helping people who have nothing, people trying to rebuild, trying to find purpose. That kind of giving fills me up. But if you’re in my personal circle, if you call yourself my friend? I expect a friend. I expect presence. I expect effort. I expect someone who sees me when I’m struggling and especially when I vocalize it, not someone who disappears and labels me "too much" the moment I have a need. Because for most of my life, that’s how it's gone. I give. I nurture. I support. And the second I need anything? I’m inconvenient. And let’s say this loud for the people in the back: Truth isn’t convenient. It’s messy. It’s uncomfortable. It doesn’t always fit the story people want to tell about you. But it’s the only thing I’m willing to live in now. I’m no longer interested in compromising myself to keep people who can’t handle my reality. Life is teaching me some brutal lessons—lessons I didn’t get to learn as a child because everything I was taught was backwards, distorted, or just plain abusive. So I’m learning the hard way. And I’m learning slowly. If often feels too slow. These days, my circle is small. Intentionally small. There’s one person who knows everything—who I trust fully—and a couple of friends I’ve let stay. And honestly? That’s enough. I’m not chasing friendships anymore. I’m not interested in bending, breaking, or shrinking just to feel loved. I don’t need friends who treat my humanity like a burden. I don’t need people who can only love the version of me that gives and gives and gives. I want to give to myself now. I want to build something beautiful with the energy I’ve always given away. I want to heal, grow, and evolve—but not at the cost of everything I’ve worked so hard to reclaim. That girl in the poem below—the one with the frayed spirit, the aching heart, the quiet grief? She’s not just standing anymore. She’s walking away from the performance. She’s reclaiming the mic. She’s finally learning that you can love others deeply without abandoning yourself. And maybe, just maybe, being a giver doesn’t have to mean being a martyr. Not anymore. For me, giving was survival, but I refuse to shrink to less than I am worth for one more second.

For most of my life, I felt confused whenever I enjoyed someone's company. I could feel it in my gut when someone was kind, welcoming, or safe—but that feeling rarely lasted long. Because soon after, my mother would find a reason to tear them down. She always did. When I was 15, my mother bought the condo next door to the one we were renting due to our landlord asking an outrageous price. A new family moved in to the unit we had rented for many years—a couple with two daughters. I remember liking them right away. They felt normal in a way that I couldn’t quite name back then. Stable. Kind. Like a family who genuinely enjoyed being around each other. But as soon as I expressed that, the narrative changed. My mother began picking them apart—relentlessly, in private, of course. She mocked their wine nights, claiming they had an “alcohol problem.” She criticized their parenting, called the daughters “out of control,” said the husband looked “dorky” and the oldest girl was “annoying.” When the mother’s brother moved in with them for a while, she spat cruelty without hesitation: “What a fucking loser. I don’t care if he served our country—what kind of moron has to move in with family because they can’t afford their bills?” Then she’d turn to me and add, “But it’s different for you. You don’t know any better.” She ridiculed the daughters’ paintings hanging on their wall, calling them “ugly and useless.” When she saw awards—anything less than first place—she’d whisper, “Participation trophies. Nothing to be proud of unless you win.” And she’d say all of this in their home, while standing on the same floor where they had welcomed us. What made it even more twisted was how differently she acted in front of them. She praised them constantly—called them strong, admirable, loving parents. She smiled at their parties, babysat their kids, spent evenings in their backyard laughing over drinks. Then the moment we got home, she’d launch into her usual bitterness: “I can’t stand them or their kids.” Yet, she recently attended their eldest's high school graduation. It was an emotional mindfuck. As her child, I watched her live in this duality, and I absorbed the message: Don’t trust anyone. Even kindness has an agenda. Even love might be fake. Some people might read this and think it’s just a long “bitch fest.” Maybe it is. But this is my truth. It’s what I grew up with. It’s what shaped the way I viewed people, connection, and even myself. I learned how to smile and nod on the outside, while feeling a firestorm of judgment and shame inside. I became what I was taught—someone who questioned everything good, who internalized suspicion, and who didn't know how to let joy feel safe. But here’s the difference: I’ve started unlearning it. I’ve realized that what I witnessed wasn’t normal. It was manipulation wrapped in charm. It was a broken person spreading her hurt like wildfire, and I was one of the first to get burned. And eventually, I became part of the fire too. Do I owe those neighbors an apology? Yes, I believe I do. Though I doubt they’d think about me much today. They’re probably still caught in the sticky, confusing web of a woman who pretends to love them, but secretly resents their peace, their unity, their ability to live without bitterness. I hope they’re happy. I hope they’re thriving. I hope they’re still raising their glasses to sunsets and backyard laughter. Because here’s the truth: Kind people don’t deserve to be targets. And as much as my mother tried to twist the narrative, I can finally see that they weren’t the problem. She was. I was. Poetry Collection: Living in a Two Faced World

I once had a therapist who claimed to be Christian. You’d think that would mean compassion, empathy, and a safe space to heal—but it was anything but that. From the beginning, I felt uncomfortable with him. But I was in my late twenties, running a daycare, raising my son, and desperate for help. So I went anyway. It's what my mother's been telling me I need since I was 4 or 5 because I needed fixing. Sometimes I even had to bring the daycare kids to sessions with me, and he would also do phone calls (which I now know was illegal back then) because that’s just what survival looked like back then. I told this therapist, many times, that it’s hard for me to talk unprompted. I needed him to ask questions. That’s how I opened up. But he never did. He just sat there. In silence. No prompts, no direction, just this heavy, suffocating stillness that left me spiraling internally.(Even as I write this now, my heart rate rises. Another instance where someone in power misused it—another wound left by a system that was supposed to help.) One day, I brought my mother to a session. She always said I needed help, yet hated attending anything with me and despite her telling everyone she'd do "anything" to help me. During that session, I blurted out something raw and terrifying: “I feel like you’re trying to take my son away from me.” I wasn’t just being dramatic. That fear lived in my bones. She later did steal my son from me. By the courts abusing their power of authority, not following their laws, and me not having representation. No, I never lost my rights. I had rights, but every time I tried to enforce my visitation, the judge denied it. Never changed the court order, just never held anyone in contempt for continuing to violate my rights and the court orders. But the moment that truly left a scar happened another time. I had shared a weekend story with him—just a simple, vulnerable moment. My son was with his father, and my friend’s daughter was with hers. So, we decided to have some drinks. When the therapist asked if I got drunk, I said yes. When he asked if I intended to get drunk, I said no. It wasn’t a big deal. I was safe, I wasn’t driving, and my child wasn’t even there. Fast forward a month after this session: I called my psychiatrist’s office to refill my anxiety meds, only to be told by a nurse, “We can’t renew your prescription. You have an alcohol addiction.” I was shocked. Furious. Confused. And of course, my anger only fed into their narrative. I had no idea where this accusation came from. Until later in life when I requested my entire medical record history and read his notes. Sure enough, there it was — a three-page note from the “Christian” therapist to my psychiatrist .  A document filled with lies and distortions: that I had a “history of alcohol abuse,” that I intentionally got drunk, that I was an addict. I had never signed a release of information for the two to legally talk. He had no right to contact my psychiatrist. No permission. No legal grounds. But that didn’t matter. He had power. He had a license. And apparently, that was enough to silence me again. I would later also read about several contacts between my therapist and my mother. I also did not sign a release for them to speak. Instead of helping his client, he helped my mother to further bury my life in lies, manipulation, and create more trauma. That was also, not legal for him to do. HIPPA folks, come one! Of course I filed complaints. Of course nothing happened. I was just another bipolar woman. An angry, irresponsible mother. A problem, not a person. This wasn’t just unethical or illegal—it was a betrayal. Another system failing to protect someone like me. Another adult in a position of authority using their role to mislabel and harm instead of help. And the worst part? This wasn’t new. This was my life. And it's written all over my medical charts, including messages from my mother to my doctors. Again, no releases signed for that to be legal. Like I wrote about in my last post—how my mother tore down kind neighbors behind their backs while smiling to their faces—this therapist was no different. He played a role while feeding a narrative that damaged my care and my credibility. My heart rate was 127 BPM as I wrote this. Because my body still reacts to the feeling of being violated. Of not being heard. Of not being believed. I have been silenced so many times that the very act of speaking up sends my nervous system into overdrive. But here’s what I’ve realized: All the “out of control” behaviors I’ve been punished for in life?   They were screams for help. I didn’t know it then. I didn’t have the language other than, "I don't know." I just knew that something felt wrong and no one was listening. When I got in trouble, I truly didn’t understand why. I wasn’t lying when I said, “I don’t know why I did it.” I was trying to survive. Trying to express something I didn’t yet have the tools to explain. The worst part, is that I now know that every time my son said, "I don't know" when he clearly should have, I know that I did something to traumatize him; like my mother traumatized me. And now? I’m working myself to the bone—losing hair, weight, energy—because I refuse to let this happen to someone else. I’m becoming a social worker. I’m going to fight for the people the system forgets. For the ones who are mislabeled, ignored, and punished for their pain. Because I know what it feels like to have your rights ignored and your voice erased. This post is me taking that voice back. As well as giving a voice to others. Right now, I’m grieving. For the life I deserved. For the girl who had no idea what was happening to her. For the names she was called: stupid, worthless, selfish, dramatic. I’m allowing myself to feel that pain. I’m letting it rise so I can process it. And when I finish this post, I’ll take slow, deep sips of ice water to soothe my nervous system. Because that’s part of how I heal now—by coming back to my body and reminding it that we are safe. I’ll revisit this memory again if I need to. And each time, the sting will soften. And eventually, it won’t define me. It’ll just be part of what I overcame. Doing so on purpose is called, "Exposure therapy," and it's painful, but it's worth the pain to lose the pain. Picture of a therapist dressed as a clown, because this is not how therapists act. This was completely unethical, illegal, and immoral. I wonder who else this, "Christian" therapist has done this to!?! Sometimes healing from being silenced in therapy requires humor.

I’m not sure where to start with this cousin of mine. She and I are the only blood relatives on our side of the family still living in the state we were born—descendants of my my mother's father. The rest of the family is part of a blended tree, and while I consider them family, we don’t share blood. Still, I tried to hold us all together. This cousin? I used to idolize her. I wanted to be like her. I respected her, admired her, and loved her deeply. She was someone I looked up to—someone I craved connection with. But when we started spending time together again during our adult years, about seven years ago, she told me something that shattered all of that: “I hated you growing up. You were annoying. You copied me all the time.” She told me, in disturbing detail, about a time when we were kids at the beach. She described how my bathing suit had become see-through, how everyone could “see all my child parts,” and how she, my grandmother, and my grandmother’s best friend sat and laughed at me. That’s what I “deserved,” she said, for picking the same bathing suit as her. I remembered that day. I remembered the laughing. I remembered asking why they were laughing—and my grandmother brushing it off with, “You wouldn’t understand.” Now I understand. And the truth makes me sick. As adults, she told me more about how spoiled, selfish, and ungrateful I was, lines my mother used with me consistently. She talked about how many vacations my mom and I took and called me a “spoiled little brat.”   This was shortly after I attempted suicide . I was fragile—attaching to anyone who gave me even the smallest reason to stay alive. Yet what I found, is those same people were the reasons I wanted to die. But she didn’t listen. She didn’t believe me when I talked about the abuse I experienced. Instead, she told me my mother sacrificed everything for me. That I was lucky. That I was delusional. Just like my mother did. She expected me to hold space for her trauma, for her stories about her father—my uncle—but refused to hold space for mine. And despite it all, I kept going back. I kept hoping. Hoping that maybe this time, she’d care. Maybe this time, she’d see me. Maybe she’d love me. Eventually, I told her how broken I felt. How I didn’t want to live anymore. And her response? Something along the lines of, “This relationship isn’t serving me anymore.” That moment cracked something open in me. Because it echoed something I had heard all my life, especially from my mother:   “You're too much. You're selfish. You're wrong.” There’s so much more I could say about this cousin, and I likely will in the future. There will be a family series one day. But for now, let me get to what matters. For the past few years, she’s lied about why she can’t come to family events—sick, busy, etc. But then I’d see her or her husband posting about being with his family. Fine. I get not wanting to be around our toxic, judgmental relatives. But what I don’t understand—what hurts—is how she treated me. I was always the one defending her when the family tore her down. In fact, I still do. I always made sure she was included. I passed along updates about her father when she asked for them. I listened to her even when she refused to hear me. And yet, I was the one she treated with the most disrespect. Like my mother, I think she knew I was loyal—so she felt safe dumping on me. I think she trusted that I’d still come back, still love her, still defend her. And for a long time, I did. Because I was used to that kind of love—conditional, painful, manipulative. That’s what I was raised in. That’s what I knew. But not anymore. I shut down my Facebook months ago. (This was drafted well over a year ago- I am back on social media) I’m done allowing people into my life who twist my words, share personal information with my mother, or use it all against me. I’m no longer standing up for people who make my life harder. I’m no longer chasing love that hurts. I’m choosing peace—even if it means being alone. I'm not sorry for that. Because people will judge you no matter what. And as long as you're not hurting anyone, do what keeps your heart and mind calm. Do what makes you feel safe.   That’s healing. That’s growth. Do you have unprocessed family betrayal? If so, feel free to share here. We can join together to make a difference and spread awareness. Picture of me mentioned in this post