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Here are just some things
I have learned
after years of allowing men to damage me.

I used to tell myself I allowed my reactions
because my reactions kept me safe.
But I needed to unlearn how I was conditioned

So that when the right man,
a real man showed up,
I would know how to let him in.
Because I knew how to survive,
but I wanted to live.

But first, I had to name the ghosts haunting me.

I had to look at toxic,
abusive behavior
and call it by its true name.
Abuse.

The fact that you could hurt me,
and somehow draw apologies
from my own lips
whenever I dared to defend myself.

Somehow, making it my fault.
Making it something I caused.
Never your short temper.
Never your lack of empathy.

Every single event,
a direct result of my own doing.

You raised your voice—
and that was my fault.

You grew aggressive and caused me to flinch—
and that was my fault.

And worse?
I apologized.
Because my fear made you feel awful.

How dare I be afraid
of someone who was always a snap away
from missing the wall
and landing on my face.

How dare I call you out
for making me feel small...
unwanted...
like a burden.

It never mattered why I was upset.
What caused it.
Whether you could see the validity.
Because at the end of the day,
my accusation of your poor treatment
was always the sin—
never your actions.

I had to learn
to stop shrinking away from the things I excel at.

Anytime I did well,
it was never met with acknowledgment.
Never met with love.
Never a simple, “Good job.”

No.

You met those moments with hostility.
With a sudden, desperate need
to knock me off my high.
To bring me back down to where you felt you were.
I couldn't be better than you.
If you allowed that of me,
there was no way I would stay.
You broke me down
to keep me.

I was not allowed happiness
if it wasn’t somehow provided by you.
I had to unlearn the dread—
the irrational fear
that my own success
meant pain and heartbreak were on their way.
I learned to keep my success quiet...
and my hopes and dreams hidden.

I had to unlearn the heavy lie
that I was never enough.

Watching you spend years stepping out on me,
convincing myself that was the best I’d ever get,
that I was receiving what I was worth.
That believing your lies meant keeping the peace.
You had me convinced it was all in my head—
even with evidence, I still gave you the benefit of the doubt.

And my feelings of unworthiness...
that part wasn't your doing.
That came from before you.
That came from trauma and abuse I endured as a child.

But you found the bruise.
And you couldn't help yourself—
constantly pressing on the open wound.

I spent years unlearning all the damage,
because the scars you left behind
had the power to keep me under your thumb.
They had the power to keep me tethered,
bound to the smoke and mirrors that was your love.

Until I finally said—Enough.
Until I said:
Pack your shit and go.

Until I reached down,
deep into the ashes,
and grabbed hold of my last ounce of self-love
and strength—
and began to let go.
Began to heal myself.

It hasn’t been an easy journey.
The pain you caused
was more than enough to keep me down,
to keep me from growing,
from thriving.

Lucky for me...
that real man. The one I wanted to be ready for.
He did come.
He did show up.
And with work, and time, and patience—I let him in.

His love was more than enough
to get me up and out of that darkness.

And though I’ve had my ups and downs since,
I am loved.
And cherished.
In a way I never knew I was worthy of.

He didn't just save me.
Piece by patient piece—
he has slowly repaired
everything you destroyed.

He doesn't press on that wound.

He brings the bandages
that keep me held together.