Journal Entry: How You Love

Every time I try to talk when something’s wrong, I get shut down. I bring up how I feel and the conversation ends with me told to stop — and later that same person comes back like nothing happened and wants to talk like they didn’t just dismiss me. After that I withdraw, sink deeper into my feelings, cry more than I admit, and I stay quiet because speaking only makes me smaller.

I can’t make sense of how someone can say they love me and then act in ways that leave me feeling worthless. The way they cut me off, the tone — it strips something away from me. I thought we were partners, equals, but they speak to me like I’m their friend in the background, not their person. That casualness hardens my heart; it makes it harder for them to reach me because they never really slow down to understand how they hurt me.

I get labeled ungrateful when I call out what’s missing. I’m told I’m too much, or that I’m complaining — and yet the gestures I hoped for never come. Promises feel loose. Effort feels selective. When moments escalate and the damage gets real, it’s like the same old evidence is sitting on the table, and nobody’s willing to change the script.

I catch myself imagining a life with distance — time apart, space to breathe, a different arrangement that prioritizes peace over pretending. I think it would be harder for them than for me, but I crave that peace more than I crave to be proven right. I am tired of feeling unsafe in the place that’s supposed to be home.

I want a space where I can be myself, where I can be loved without needing to prove my worth. I want rest. I want to stop pouring from a cup that’s been emptied by someone who doesn’t know how to refill.