A Note From Me

I used to think I was just a twat when it came to men. That I’d made one daft decision after another, dragging my heart—and worse, my kids—through storm after storm, chasing the kind of love I thought could fix the broken parts of me. I called it love when it was control. I called it chemistry when it was chaos. I called it loyalty when it was fear.

But the truth is, I wasn’t a fool. I was starving for something real in a world full of takers. I gave everything I had. Meals. Forgiveness. My peace. My home. My children’s stability. All in the name of keeping a man who couldn’t even keep his promises sober. And what hurts more than the men is the damage that rippled out to my boys. The tension they lived in. The way they had to learn to read moods instead of bedtime stories. They deserved better. And I carry that.

I wasn’t just hoping for love. I was desperate not to be alone. But I’ve learned now that dragging others into your loneliness doesn’t cure it. It spreads it.

Now, in my fifties, I’ve started seeing my story in full. The patterns. The wake-up calls I kept sleeping through. And yes, even the last chapter—where I let in the softest man of them all. A man with bipolar who lived off my spark like a lamp plugged into someone else’s socket. He was never violent. Never cruel. Just needy. And silent. And slowly draining me until I had nothing left but guilt and exhaustion. That chapter is coming soon.

But this isn’t a tragedy. This is a turning point.

I’m no longer the woman bending herself into the shape of someone else’s needs. I’m no longer the girl who needed a man to prove she was lovable. I’m not running anymore. I’m writing. I’m remembering. I’m rebuilding.

And if there’s anything I want you to take from this blog, it’s that healing doesn’t mean pretending the past didn’t happen. It means naming it. Owning it. And deciding that you get to write the final pages.

I am. And they’re going to burn.