“Abuse doesn’t always look like a black eye. Sometimes it’s a slow bleed from the soul.” -Najwa Zebian

My Interpretation: He did not need to hit me. He just had to make sure I questioned myself enough to stay. He is the reason I flinch at loud noises. He is the reason why I flinch if someone moves to fast. He is simply … the reason. He did not need to raise a hand. He just needed me to keep second-guessing myself long enough to stay quiet. That is what kept him in power. That is what I had to unlearn. There are so many different kinds of abuse & no one actually talks about them. It is almost impossible to fathom the realities that we live in. The simplicity of being kind vs being an asshole – yet these skills & differences are often not discussed openly.

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🚫 Cade: The Architect of My Undoing

The father of my child.
The man who dismantled my sense of self by a thousand tiny cuts,
then called me crazy for bleeding.

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🧨 The Setup

He started with sticky notes.
“Hi Beautiful.”
Simple. Sweet. Calculated.
Then proceeded with sweet gestures:
Picking me up, opening the door at places, having me place my order first, the good morning & good night messages, the compliments, & the feeling as if I was the center of his world.

What it was?
The bare minimum, entrapping, & love bombing.

Because once I said, “I love you”?
The effort vanished.
Romance was over.
Love became labor.
& I was the only one clocked in.

He forgot my birthday – seven out of ten years.
Did not fill a single stocking unless I begged.
Made over six figures but could never be bothered to spend ten dollars on something thoughtful.
Not because he could not –
because he would not.

I gave fifteen reminders.
He blamed me when I cried.
Said, “Well, I didn’t see the stockings hung up.”
As if effort is only real if it is in his direct line of sight.

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🧺 The Emotional Load

I did everything.
The laundry. The mental load. The holiday prep.
Folded his fucking underwear before he left for a camping trip I was never invited to.

When I made myself two hot pockets at 6:30pm because
I had not eaten all day –
He asked, “That’s what you’re eating?”
Then rolled his eyes & mocked me.

I lost my appetite.
& any remaining tolerance for being treated like a burden in my own home.

He did not hit me.
But he hit below the soul.
With silence, with shame, with half-remembered promises that shifted every time I asked him to follow through.

I birthed a child into a warzone of unmet expectations.
& still, I kept showing up.
Kept cooking, folding, stretching.
Kept laying down my backbone & calling it compromise.

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💥 The Disrespect

One of his family members made sexualized comments about my body – in front of him.
Cade did nothing.
Just kept chatting with the man for hours while I read a book to our child.
I heard every word.
& I knew what would happen next.
He came to bed around 10:30pm.
I was asleep.

He pulled my pants down – hard enough to bruise my hip.
I had intentionally tightened them because I didn’t feel safe.
He woke me up mid-act.
Then, when he finished, he said:

“I know you were sleeping, but I hope you still had fun.”
Then rolled over & snored.
Like it was no big deal.
Like I did not matter.

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🩸 The Miscarriage

When I miscarried,
he still expected dinner on the table.
Still expected me to do drop-offs, answer messages,
smile politely.

There was no space for grief.
Just silence.
& expectations.

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🎭 The Public Mask

To the world?
He is funny.
Sociable.
A “great guy.”
A “hard worker.”

& he is.
But only when there is an audience.

Behind closed doors?
He is cold.
Rigid.
Refuses to change or listen.
He mocks therapy.
Defends any man’s narcissistic behaviors
after swearing he would never become anything like his father.
He calls that “logic.”

He told me I was too sensitive.
Too dramatic.
Too complicated.
But the truth?

He was too empty.

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🧱 The Wreckage

He touched me when I said no
More than once.
He minimized my exhaustion
More than once.
He invalidated my reality so thoroughly
that I started asking him for permission to feel.

I lost myself.
One guilt trip at a time.

He blamed the alcohol he consumed.
Then the stress.
Then blamed me.
For being tired. For having needs. For noticing when he did not try.

& when I asked for help, he said I was “ungrateful”.
That I did not appreciate what he did do.
Like picking his own child up from daycare was a debt owed.
Like the emotional labor I carried was invisible.

But I am remembering it now.
All of it.
The manipulation.
The control.
The nights I went to bed feeling unsafe in my own body
because the man I loved acted like I was an object.

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🧨 The Truth

Cade did not kill me.
But he hollowed me out.
Stripped me of softness.
Warped my perception.
Made me think that love looked like labor.
That survival was a fair trade for partnership.

But I know better now.
Because love does not twist your voice until it shakes.
It does not trespass your body & call it miscommunication.
It does not demand everything & give nothing back.

He made me believe I was too much.
He made me believe I was hard to love.
But the truth?

He was not even enough to carry the version of me that begged to be small.
& I refuse to beg anymore.

xoxo ♡