For Me, She Is Dead
June 06, 2025
Some people don't leave through death — they leave through betrayal, denial, and the slow erosion of trust. And one day, you realise you're grieving someone who's still alive.
For me, she is dead.
Not in the literal sense.
She’s still out there — sending messages, finding polite ways to intrude, slipping in “concern” where there should be silence.
But something in me has stopped responding.
Stopped hoping.
Stopped waiting for her to become someone capable of loving me in a way that doesn’t cost me everything.
What could be wrong with someone like that?
I don’t know.
But I know what it’s done to me.
A lifetime of boundary violations disguised as love.
Politeness wrapped around manipulation.
Guilt tucked into every interaction.
A black hole that devours energy, presence, and identity — while smiling.
It’s not that she’s evil.
It’s that she’s unwell, unhealed, and — most painfully — probably unreachable.
Maybe it’s narcissism. Maybe it’s emotional immaturity.
Maybe she’s been so disconnected from her own truth that she’ll never know how to hold mine.
But whatever it is, I’m done circling it, naming it, trying to understand it.
Because I understand this:
Her presence is not safe.
Her messages are not neutral.
Her love is not love.
There was a time when I thought standing up to her would destroy me.
That setting a boundary would invite punishment, chaos, or guilt I couldn’t survive.
But when I finally said no — when I drew the line and meant it —
nothing happened.
No explosion. No backlash. No storm.
Just… silence.
And in that silence, I felt peace.
I thought this would break me.
But it set me free.
I see now that her power over me was never real.
It was a residue of childhood — of needing her love to survive.
But I’m not surviving anymore.
I’m living.
So yes — for me, she is dead.
And I’m finally alive.
Not bitter.
Not cold.
Just clear.
And that’s enough.