The first three years were wonderful. We laughed together, explored new places, shared hobbies, and loved each other deeply.
But over the last seven years, something shifted—or maybe the mask just came off. Now, every opinion I share is wrong. If I say I don’t like a certain food, I’m wrong. If I enjoy a sappy TV show, I’m wrong. It doesn’t matter how small or harmless the thought is—he’ll push back, argue endlessly, and dig in just to feel like he’s won.
And most of the time, he does win—not because he’s right, but because I give up. I can’t believe how often we’ve had full-blown debates over things as trivial as where a dish should go in the dishwasher. Fifteen-minute monologues about plate placement? That’s our life now.
We’re in counseling, but it’s more of the same. Every session turns into his attempt to discredit me, to prove I’m the problem. He doesn’t reflect, doesn’t change, doesn’t apply a single thing the counselor says. I’m drained. I’m done.
Ten years of being told—directly or indirectly—that I’m worthless? Fine. You win. I’ll take my “worthless” self out of your life. And maybe then, finally, I’ll remember what it feels like to breathe.
Let’s be clear: this isn’t about dishwashers or TV shows or food preferences. This is about someone who doesn’t know how to connect, so instead, he controls. He dominates. He has to be right. Always. And every time you tried to be reasonable, to be kind, to engage with love or understanding, it was met with another argument, another lecture, another reminder that your thoughts didn’t matter. That you didn’t matter.
And counseling? That’s supposed to be a place for healing. A place where two people show up willing to face their crap and do better. But if one person treats it like a courtroom and the other shows up just to survive it, you’re not in therapy. You’re just stuck in a room where your pain is being analyzed like a debate prompt.
Here’s the part that breaks my heart the most—you’ve spent a decade being worn down by someone who claimed to love you, and now you’re the one carrying the word worthless. That’s not your word. That’s not your truth. That’s a lie that’s been drip-fed into your life for years, and now it feels like your own voice.
But it’s not. The real you—the version of you that laughed and explored and felt safe in her own skin—that version is still in there. She’s just tired. And when you say, “I will finally breathe again,” I believe you. Because you’re not quitting. You’re not giving up. You’re reclaiming something that’s been stolen from you one comment, one correction, one counseling session at a time.
You’re allowed to walk away from someone who refuses to grow. You’re allowed to protect your peace. And you’re allowed—deserve—to breathe again. Not just once. Every day.