I don't know who I am

It’s not even like I woke up one morning and thought that... but yeah, I don't really know who I am anymore right now... It was a slow, agonizing realization, one that gnawed at the edges of my mind every damn day, like a relentless parasite. I’ve given up so much of myself for this relationship. My personality, my interests, my humor, my own fucking preferences. I remember how I used to laugh at stupid things, how I loved blasting heavy metal in the car and feeling the bass rumble through my chest. Now, I sit there in silence, pretending to enjoy his godawful indie playlists because, apparently, that's what "we" do. Do you see the irony? I don’t even know who I am because I’ve been eroded, worn down like some fucking rock in a stream. One little compromise at a time, I traded myself for this empty façade of “us.” But what about me?

I don’t even recognize my face in the mirror anymore. I used to wear bold makeup, vivid colors that made me feel fierce and powerful. Now, it’s all muted tones, subtle pinks, and nudes. Why? Because he said it was more “natural.” Natural? Who gives a shit? I used to stand up for myself, used to call people out on their bullshit, but now I find myself swallowing my anger like it’s some bitter pill I have to take just to keep the peace. I hate myself for it. I hate that I’ve become this quiet, compliant version of myself, a woman I’d probably roll my eyes at if I met her. And the worst part? He probably thinks I’m “happy” like this. Well, fuck that. I’m not happy. I’m trapped in a persona I created to survive this relationship, and I’m suffocating in it. How the hell did I get here?

I tried to claw my way back to who I was. I picked up my guitar again, the one I used to play every day before this relationship turned my world into a grayscale. But the strings felt foreign under my fingers. I couldn’t even remember the chords to my favorite song. It was like trying to speak a language I used to be fluent in but had completely forgotten. Do you have any idea how terrifying that is? To lose not just your interests but the muscle memory of who you used to be? It’s like my brain was reprogrammed, overwritten by his preferences, his needs, his fucking whims. And the scary thing is, I let it happen. Bit by bit, I chipped away at myself until there was nothing left but a hollow echo of the woman I used to be. And he didn’t even notice, or worse, he noticed and liked it.

Sometimes, I lie awake at night, staring at the ceiling, wondering what the fuck I’m doing. Who am I? Am I even a person anymore, or just some prop in his perfectly curated life? I fantasize about walking out the door, slamming it behind me, and reclaiming my fucking soul. But then I think about the logistics—where would I go, what would I do, how would I even start over? I feel like a ghost, haunting a life I never agreed to live, and I don’t know how to escape. I don’t want your sympathy. I don’t even want advice. I just want to scream into the void: I don’t know who I am anymore. And maybe, just maybe, if I scream loud enough, the real me might hear it and claw her way back. Or maybe she’s already gone. Who knows? 🖕

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