Half-Love; Half-heart: How do we settle?

There are moments when I sit with myself and wonder why I accept less than I deserve. Why I stay in spaces where I’m treated like I’m not enough, even though I know deep down I am. Maybe it’s punishment I put on myself. Maybe it’s guilt. Maybe it’s the belief that I don’t deserve happiness until my girls are home. I don’t always know the answer. But I know the feeling.

I know what it’s like to give everything—love, loyalty, effort—while being told I’m not really “in” the relationship. To be expected to show up like a girlfriend, like a wife, while being denied the respect and commitment that should come with it. It feels like a punch in the stomach every time. And yet, I stay. I keep giving. I keep hoping.

I’ve settled for the minimum too many times in my life. I’ve accepted crumbs when I know I am worthy of the whole meal. I know how good of a woman I am. I know I should be appreciated, wanted, and loved fully. And still, I find myself questioning: why do I allow this? Why do I keep chasing after someone who doesn’t chase me back?

Maybe you’ve asked yourself the same questions. Maybe you’ve felt the same ache—the loneliness of being half-loved, the exhaustion of pouring yourself out without being refilled. If you have, I want you to know this: I see you. I hear you. I understand you. You are not alone.

We deserve more. We deserve effort, care, and consistency. We deserve to be shown off, to be chosen, to be loved without hesitation. And even if we don’t always believe it, even if we punish ourselves or carry guilt, the truth is still there: we are worthy.

So if you’re reading this and you’ve felt the sting of being treated like you’re less than, know that I’m standing with you. I’m fighting my own battles too, but I believe in us—I believe we can stop settling, demand the love we deserve, and one day stop questioning our worth because it will finally be honored.  

I’m always here. If you ever need a shoulder to lean on or an ear to vent to, message me. I’ll never pretend my decisions are always wise—I usually know the risks before I take them. But I own my choices, I carry accountability for the pain I’ve lived through, and I try to learn from every mistake and heartbreak.  

The truth is, I know what’s acceptable and what isn’t. I know what I should and shouldn’t tolerate. Yet depression and mental battles cloud my judgment, and too often I accept things I shouldn’t. I fight wars I know I’ll never fully win. And I’ve learned I’m not alone—so many of us do this. Maybe it’s because we don’t give up easily on those we love. Maybe it’s fear of being alone or starting over. Maybe it’s guilt, or the belief that we don’t deserve happiness until our children are home.  

I’ve seen how broken the system can be, how family court can strip parents of their rights, how lack of knowledge or money becomes a weapon against us. Even when you fight and win, the financial and emotional aftermath can break the strongest person. And the truth is, the battle doesn’t end when your kids come home—healing the bond takes just as much effort.  

So we cope. We cling to pain because it reminds us we’re still alive in a world that tries to numb us. We form trauma bonds that make it almost impossible to walk away. And if you can relate to any of this, I invite you to share your story—whether in the comments or privately with me. You are not alone in this indescribable pain. Sometimes just putting it into words is the first step toward relief, and together we can carry the weight a little lighter.  

Survival Mode

I feel like I’m being torn apart from the inside. My parts keep pulling me in opposite directions, each one convinced it knows best, each one louder than the last. One rises up and takes control, only to vanish when another storms in. I never know which version of me will show up, and the constant switching is wearing me down to the bone. It’s not just confusion—it’s exhaustion so heavy I can barely breathe.

People around me see the fragments. They call me forgetful, lazy, scatter-brained. They think I don’t care when I forget conversations, appointments, errands, even something as simple as what I said I’d cook for dinner. But they don’t see the war inside me. They don’t see how each part is having its own conversation, making its own promises, and leaving me to pick up the pieces when none of it lines up. I’m not careless—I’m drowning in too many selves at once.

And then there’s the weight outside of me. Missing my girls is a grief that never loosens its grip. It’s a heaviness that presses on my chest every hour of every day. Relationship wounds pile on top of that—men who claimed to love me but left me broken, people who said they cared but disrespected me, hurt me, made me question my worth. My heart feels shattered into fragments, and the only thing connecting those fragments is pain. Nothing else. Just pain.

Sobriety is another battle I fight alone. Every day is a climb with no summit, every step harder than the last. And while I’m trying to hold myself together, the world keeps pushing me back—reminding me I’m a felon, reminding me of warrants, reminding me that even when I’m more than qualified, doors slam shut in my face. It’s like the universe keeps saying I don’t deserve to move forward, no matter how hard I try.

I cry so much it feels endless. Every minute, every hour, every day, every week. Tears are the only language my body knows right now. I am alone, scared, and numb to everything except the ache. The war inside me never stops, and the war outside me never lets up. I am exhausted from fighting on both fronts, exhausted from trying to prove I care, exhausted from trying to survive when all I feel is heartbreak.

My parts keep me spinning, tearing me in different directions, and I am worn down to nothing. I want peace. I want stillness. I want to stop breaking under the weight of myself and the world. But right now, all I have is the pain that binds me, the exhaustion that defines me, and the hope—fragile, flickering—that maybe one day I’ll find a way to gather all these pieces into something whole.

Why do I keep going back?

Why Do I Keep Going Back?

There are nights I lie awake asking myself the same question over and over: why do I keep putting myself in situations I know will end badly? Why do I keep going back to someone who has proven, time and time again, that he will never change?  

It’s not just the arguments. It’s not just the disrespect. It’s the way he hurts me—mentally, physically—and then flips the script, playing the victim. He finds justification for the things he does, while I’m left carrying the weight of his actions. And somehow, I still find myself drawn back.  

When I’m not with him, I think about him. I worry about him. I wonder if he’s okay. And when I am with him, I cater to him—pouring myself out, giving, bending, trying to meet his needs. But he doesn’t do the same for me. Sometimes he tries in his own way, but my mind is always on defense. The scars of the past make me suspicious of even the smallest kindness, because I’ve learned that there’s usually a motive behind it.  

The truth is, I need to stop. I need to break free before he destroys me completely.  

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Yesterday’s Breaking Point

Yesterday was supposed to be simple. I told him ahead of time that I had to leave for a few hours—to meet with my sponsor and complete an assessment for a housing voucher. Something that could give me stability, my own place, a chance to stop bouncing between couches and chaos. He said he was fine with it.  

But when I let him know I was on my way back, all hell broke loose.  

Suddenly, I was selfish. I hadn’t spent his whole day off with him. He told me to get my things and get out of his life. He threatened to keep my belongings, then changed his mind. When I went to collect them, he shut himself in his room—door closed, silence heavy. I left quietly.  

And then this morning, he told me to die.  

Do you know what that does to a person’s mind? To hear those words from someone you’ve given so much of yourself to? It’s insane. It’s breaking me down piece by piece.  

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The Cycle of Attachment

I know the sex is good—maybe too good. Maybe that’s part of the trap. But sex isn’t enough to justify being disrespected, degraded, and discarded. It isn’t enough to excuse the way he treats me.  

So why do I allow it? Why do I keep going back?  

The answer is complicated. It’s attachment. It’s trauma. It’s the twisted comfort of the familiar, even when the familiar is toxic. It’s the hope that maybe this time will be different, even though history keeps proving otherwise.  

There’s a part of me that believes he has a sex addiction, that the intensity of our connection is rooted in something unhealthy. And yet, I’ve let that intensity convince me it’s worth the pain. But it’s not.  

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Choosing Myself

I’m writing this because I need to see it in black and white. I need to remind myself that no amount of passion, no amount of “trying in his own way,” can make up for the damage he’s done.  

I need to choose myself. I need to break free before he kills me—whether that’s physically, mentally, or spiritually.  

Because the truth is, I deserve more. I deserve respect. I deserve peace. I deserve love that doesn’t come with conditions, manipulation, or cruelty.  

And the first step is admitting that I’ve been stuck in this cycle. The next step is breaking it.  

To Anyone Reading This

If you’ve ever found yourself in a cycle like mine—going back to someone who breaks you down, who makes you question your worth—please know you’re not alone. These attachments can feel unshakable, but they are not unbreakable.  

We deserve more than pain disguised as love. We deserve respect, peace, and safety. Writing this is my way of reminding myself—and maybe reminding you—that we don’t have to stay bound to people who thrive on our suffering.  

If you’re reading this and nodding along, take it as a sign: you are worthy of freedom, of joy, of love that doesn’t hurt.