Tell Me Again How I’m The Problem

Tell me again how I’m the problem.

Say it with your full chest, if you can. Because I’m dying to hear how your delusions have spun me into the villain in a story I never asked to be part of. Tell me again how my silence, my indifference, my refusal to contort myself into something more comfortable for your brittle ego is somehow the greatest offense of all.

You came to my house in 2019 on the back of my love. Not your money. Not your effort. Not your integrity. You came because I loved you. And I welcomed you. I fed you. I gave you peace. You told me that, remember? You feel peace in my home. But then you slithered back into your own, and suddenly I’m a hurricane of rage. Funny, that. Because all I’ve offered you is distance, boundaries, and a calm you seem desperate to poison.

You say you can’t even mention my name without her flying off the handle. And yet somehow, I’m to blame? Her tantrums become my indictment. Her rage becomes my label. Her voice becomes your scripture. And I’m tired. I am so tired of watching you let her sharpen the knives, hand them to you, and then act surprised when I bleed.

I never asked you not to talk to her. I never demanded you cut ties or speak ill or alter your behaviour in any way. I never once mentioned her name with malice. In fact, I told you—explicitly—that I would never expect you to stop seeing or speaking to her. And your jaw dropped. Your mouth hung open like the truth was too big to comprehend. Maybe if you had ever asked me how I felt—really asked—you would have known that. But you never wanted my truth. Only hers.

Maybe it’s because if you truly heard me, your delusion would crack wide open. You’d have to face the fact that it isn’t 50/50. It never was. I didn’t orchestrate conflict. I didn’t lie. I didn’t manipulate. I simply lived. I tried to welcome you into my life while leaving the pain behind. And even then—even then—you spun it. That absurd lie about me wanting to see her child? I didn’t want it and I told you that. I wanted nothing to do with anything that put us on a path that led to anything close to reunion.

No. I could never welcome her back into my life. But I never wished her harm. I never wished her anything at all.

Still. I am the problem. Somehow.

You accused me of being angry. I was not angry. Not even close. I was indifferent until she inflicted herself on my life and you supported it.

Because you need me to rage. You need me to explode so you can pat yourself on the back for being right about me. Well here you go. I’m angry now. But I won’t give you that. I will not perform for you. I will not break so you can look whole.

You spread rumours about me while you sat quietly in the peace I built. You tell people I’m volatile while you ate meals in the home I made. You sat in the warmth of what I created and then you turn around and call it cold. You are not confused. You are complicit. You are not blind. You are willfully unseeing.

And still—you call me the problem.

You wear arrogance like armour, but it’s paper-thin. You think you’re the smartest man in every room, but your gaslighting is so clumsy I doubt it would work on a toddler. You speak in riddles and contradictions and expect me to decode them. But I’ve stopped translating your cruelty into love. It’s not love. It never was.

I have swallowed your slights. Your antiquated worldviews. Your silence. Your snide remarks. Your refusal to acknowledge the damage. Your allergy to apology. I have held it all like an offering, hoping that maybe—maybe—you’d see it for what it was. That you’d offer something kind in return.

But no. You never did.

Because the truth is—you are the problem.

I don’t know what’s wrong with you. I don’t know why your loyalty lies with venom. Why her voice is gospel and mine is static. Why you turn into a jellyfish, all sting and no spine, after one of your little bitch fests with her. Why you come floating in, tentacles trailing, and pierce me without warning.

Real love would have warned me. Real love would have protected me. Real love would have picked me up and said, if I’m going to hear a side, I’ll hear both or none at all. But I kept trying. Because hope, even when it’s proofless, is powerful.

My whole family saw what I couldn’t. They said it was weird. They said I should cut you out. But I couldn’t. Not then. I kept holding on with bruised hands and a tattered heart.

But this? This last betrayal? This is too big.

You’ve beaten the bones of my love into dust. Ground it down to nothing. Pulverized it with every hammer blow of cowardice and condescension. And now there’s nothing left but ash. One sharp exhale and it scatters into the wind, into the nothing it always was.

I hope you got whatever you wanted. I hope the performance was worth it. I hope you’re on cloud nine and high on whatever drug your game got you.

It’s done now.

Forever.

Peace, Love, and Inspiration,
~Britt Wolfe💚