Is it just me or…?

Why is it that every time we get closer to glory, something comes in to remind us of our past? Why does it seem like just as we approach peace, the remnants of old crashes scatter across the road in front of us — almost like they’re placed there to disrupt our flow?

Is it just me, or am I the only one who still carries love and hate for my abuser? Is it just me, or do others also find themselves wondering if things could have been different (as co-parents) — knowing deep down the answer is nothing? There is nothing we could have done to change them. Nothing that would have made them treat us or their children better. This type of person doesn’t wake up one day and realize your worth. The odds of an abuser owning their shit? Slim to none. Honestly, probably a negative-20 on a 0-to-10 scale.

And yet… is it just me who still feels like they deserve an apology and an admission of guilt? (Other than the quite one’s from behind closed doors that were only used to lure me back in to the abusive cycle) Am I the only one who still hopes for some kind of closure, even though I know damn well it won’t change a thing? Would hearing “I’m sorry” actually help me or better yet “heal” me? Or would it just be another empty gesture? I’ll probably never know.

I wrestle every day with this strange love-hate truth: the same man who abused me also gave me the greatest gifts of my life — my daughters. They’ve molded me into the woman I am today. But every time I look at their faces, I can’t ignore that part of him lingers there. How do you forget something that stares you in the eyes every day and calls you “Mom”?

Parenting after abuse isn’t physically exhausting or even just financially demanding — it’s emotionally and psychologically heavy. How do I explain to my daughters why I left their father? How do I tell them the truth in a way they’ll understand without teaching them to hate him, or me? How do I prepare myself to co-parent with someone who intentionally destroyed me, completely broke me, not just for today but for the rest of our lives? How do I explain to my daughter’s why he can’t be within 100 yards of me…court ordered? And to take it to another level of bullshit.. one day, if my daughters have children, how do I prepare for the reality of grandparenting with him too?

People say forgiveness is freedom. But tell me — how do you forgive someone whose voice alone can set fire to your chest? Who’s presence makes you have panic attacks, sweaty palms, and fight or flight reactions. How do you forgive a laugh that feels sinister, a presence that infects every boundary you worked so hard to build? I’ve cut ties, set limits, drawn lines, and still, somehow, he finds his way back in like a bad cold that refuses to leave.

Do I have the right to be this angry? Or is this just the part where I’m supposed to “take accountability” for the choices I made? I mean after all, I picked him… right? Maybe. But I was 17 when I made most of those choices, and it’s hard to forgive myself for decisions I made as a child before I even knew what the hell I was doing. Most people get to outgrow their teenage mistakes. They learn, they move on, they rebuild clean as adults. But what happens when the bad choices of your childhood stain every single day of your adulthood? When every moment of your life still revolves around someone you wish you could forget?

I know in my bones this was part of his plan — to make sure I would never fully escape. And maybe that’s why forgiveness feels impossible. Not just because of how he treated me, but because of how he has failed my daughters.

It’s one thing to forgive the abuse I endured. It’s another to forgive neglect, inconsistency, and absence from their father. I can’t forgive someone who sees my children as chess pieces in his game. I can’t forgive someone who refuses to be a model father. Point. Blank. Period.

He is nowhere near what they should have, and that truth will always weigh on me. I will always feel in debt to my daughters because I chose him for them. They deserved better. And no matter how much I want to fix it, there’s nothing I can do. I have no control over this part of my life and I have to accept it. Nothing I can do to make him truly show up—not just for appearances, but with real presence. To be there because they need him, not because it makes him feel better about himself.

Is it just me, or does forgiveness feel even harder when the pain isn’t about what we endured, but about what our children continue to live without?

Is it just me, or do I still feel so damn alone. I go to court, I explain, I relive it all in front of judges and lawyers. I spill my guts, tell them my truths, my experiences, my daughters experiences in hopes for help. Is it just me or it it f*cking embarrassing! They see who he is, and yet he still has “rights.” Rights he barely wants — except for the control he thinks it gives him.

So where does this end? How do you move forward when the world tells you to just “let it go”? As if forgiveness and healing are one-size-fits-all. As if trauma can be tucked neatly into a 10-step program.

Healing isn’t 10 steps. It’s 10 million. And it’s not 10 million steps to a destination either. Is it just me, or is healing not a destination? It’s a permanent, constant, everlasting, obnoxious, exciting, saddening, over-whelming, over-joyful bullshit journey.

I told myself that writing my story, publishing my pain, will lift the weight off my shoulders. And sometimes it does. Other times, it just makes me realize how many women are silently fighting the same battles. I see hundreds of comments from women who have lived through the same cycles as me. I’m reminded I’m not alone.

And just as the excitement of building a community hits, the fear rushes in. The fear that one day, my daughters could be among those women writing those same cruel , heartbreaking comments. And if that happens, I’ll feel like it’s my fault. Because I brought them into the world with a man who wasn’t capable of being the father they deserve.

Maybe that’s the part that keeps me stuck in this place — standing at the gate of forgiveness, one foot forward, the other dragging behind.

So, is it just me? I don’t think so. But most days it feels like it is… just me.

If you’re reading this and you’ve ever felt trapped between healing and hurting, between love and hate, between wanting closure and knowing you’ll never get it — know this: even the emotions we don’t say out loud are valid. Even the ones we can’t name. Sometimes just knowing someone else feels them too is enough.

That’s why I write. Not because I have the answers. Not because I’ve figured out forgiveness. But because unexpressed emotions eat us alive. And if speaking mine out loud can help one other woman feel seen, feel heard — even without words — then maybe that’s where the real healing begins.