The day that broke you is still breaking you-but somehow it’s also the day you found a crack of light. Another night, another fight. It feels normal now, even though it shouldn’t. Sometimes, you convince yourself you deserve it. The fights keep getting worse. Your sanity frays at the edges, and you’ve started questioning your worth, your value-everything. But, how can you not, when the only references you have are his gaslighting, the negative self-talk looping in your head, and the breadcrumbs you cling to like they’re enough. 

  These days you see a glimpse of the life you want-days when the lights start to peak through-but it never lasts. He’s too good at pulling the rug out from under you. And for too long, you’ve believed it when he tells you it’s your fault. That you’re too damaged, too much, not enough. And even now, there’s a part of you that still wonders if he’s right.

You planned a night for yourself. Just one night to feel like you could breathe. A chance to reflect, cry, and maybe even start to heal. You packed a bag for you-for the version of yourself you’re so desperately trying to hold onto. But he had other plans. His words cut through your reserve with surgical precision: a perfectly timed guilt trip, a breadcrumb of affection, and suddenly the night you had planned for yourself was no longer yours.

You held on to one small piece of yourself: the sketchbook and pencil. The part of you he tries to silence-the part that still dreams of creating, feeling something real-made sure it stayed it your bag. You didn’t know it then, but that act of defiance, however small, would change the direction of everything.

An eye started to take shape on the page-an eye filled with sadness, exhaustion, and something you couldn’t quite name. You poured everything into that drawing: the guilt, the anger, the fear, the love, the heartbreak. And for the first time what felt like forever, you weren’t surviving-you were creating.

But, even as the pencil moved, the questions circled: Why am I still here? Why can’t I just leave?  Am I really this weak? The shame swirled with the sadness, and it felt like you were drowning. Even when you’re not sure if your swimming or sinking. But you haven’t stopped yet.

This is what they don’t tell you about abuse: it’s not always loud. It doesn’t always leave bruises. Sometimes, it’s a constant hum in the back ground, so steady you almost forget it’s there. But it’s real, and it’s insidious, and it keeps you starving for affection, grasping at breadcrumbs because they’re all you’ve ever known. And even now, knowing all of it doesn’t make it any easier.

You still feel the pull. The shame. The delusion that maybe this time he will change. And maybe he won’t raise his voice tonight, or maybe he’ll actually listen, and maybe you’ll finally feel like you’re enough. But deep down, you know that’s not how this works. You know it’s not you-it was never you. And yet, the cycle keeps spinning.

This night didn’t fix anything. The shame is still there. The doubts still there as well. He ‘s still here. But that drawing-the eye you sketched through those tears-that was something new. Something yours. It didn’t solve the mess you’re in, but it reminded you that you’re still here. That you’re than the person he’s tried to shape you into. That you can take back pieces of yourself, even when it feels impossible.

I’m not healed. I don’t have the answers. But I am trying. And for now, that’s enough.