Losing Myself in Love That Wasn’t Love

From surviving one toxic relationship to falling into something even darker — how I lost myself, and how I’m finally learning to come back.

There’s a kind of heartbreak that doesn’t happen when someone leaves you — it happens while they stay. And you stay too. Hoping it turns into something it never was.

I thought leaving Hayley’s dad would be the hardest part. I didn’t realize I was walking straight into something worse. The relationship that came next didn’t just hurt — it broke pieces of me I didn’t even know were there. He was charming. He said everything I wanted to hear. And after everything I’d already been through, I was desperate to feel wanted… even if it wasn’t real. I didn’t know I was dating a narcissist until I couldn’t recognize myself anymore.

Have you ever loved someone so much you genuinely thought you’d die without them? It sounds dramatic now — I can see it clearly with distance. But back then? My entire world felt like it was ending over a man who couldn’t even give me the bare minimum.

When we met, it didn’t feel toxic. It felt fun. Light. Like a breath of fresh air after years of drowning. He was my best friend’s boyfriend’s best friend, and we thought we were going to be this fun little friend group — double dates, weekend hangouts, the whole thing. I was newly single, finally co-parenting, and for the first time in years I had time to myself.

And I ran with it. I was a teen mom who never really got to live. That freedom? It tasted like possibility — like maybe I could be young and wanted and loved. I didn’t know I was walking straight into a cage disguised as a fairytale.

He introduced me to this wild, chaotic party life — nothing I had ever experienced before. And honestly? I loved it. For a moment, I felt like I was finally living out the teenage years I never had. But the problem was… I wasn’t a teenager. I was a mom. I was 25 years old and spiraling.

I had just broken up my family. And even if that relationship wasn’t the healthiest, it was still a heavy loss. The kind of loss that leaves guilt tangled up with relief. At the time, I told myself it was the right thing — and deep down, I knew it was — but that didn’t make it easy.

Things got even more complicated when my son stopped going with Hayley’s dad — something my mom agreed to without asking me. He wasn’t his biological father, but still, that wasn’t her choice to make. And suddenly, I was a full-time mom again. I was grieving a relationship, questioning who I was, and unraveling under the pressure of trying to hold it all together.

My new boyfriend didn’t handle it well. He started pulling away, blaming me for not having time for him. Eventually, it got so bad that I made the hardest decision of my life — I asked my parents to take custody of my son. Not because I didn’t love him. Not because I was out partying every night. But because I couldn’t even take care of myself, let alone two children.

I wasn’t addicted to anything. I wasn’t out of control. I was just completely empty. Drained. Burned out from years of pretending to be okay. I even took a step back from my daughter’s life for a while. I still saw them regularly, but I couldn’t be the mom they deserved — and no one around me knew how to help me be her.

From the moment my parents took custody of my son, I haven’t been the same. Something in me shifted — like a part of my soul detached and never fully came back. I’ve walked around ever since with this unbearable weight… shame, guilt, embarrassment.

It didn’t matter how much I loved my kids or how often I saw them — I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had failed them. That I had failed him. And because of that, I stopped feeling like a good mom. Even though, deep down, I know I am a good mom. I just needed time. I needed space to get my shit together — to work through all the pain I had buried and become the version of me they really deserve.

And truthfully? That version is always going to be a work in progress. I’m never going to be perfect. But I can always keep getting better.

Still, when you're stuck in that pit of guilt and not feeling good enough, you reach for anything that feels like love. And that man — the narcissist — became my everything. I clung to him like he was oxygen. I didn’t realize I was choking myself in the process.

My relationship with my parents was strained too. They wanted to protect Brendan, and I understand that now — but at the time, it just felt like no one was on my side. No one was loving me through the mess. I wasn’t just grieving the loss of my son’s day-to-day — I was grieving the loss of a support system I never really had in the first place.

So I clung to the one person I thought loved me. But damn… I was so wrong.

It didn’t take long after we met for him to convince me to move in. And once I did, the version of him I had fallen for disappeared almost overnight. His true colors started bleeding through — though I couldn’t see them for what they were at the time. I was still blinded by the idea of love.

Looking back now? The red flags were everywhere.

He controlled everything. What I wore. Who I talked to. Where I went. If I messed up — and by messed up, I mean doing something as simple as texting a friend or not answering him fast enough — there was hell to pay.

The silent treatment became his favorite weapon. And weirdly, I remember thinking that part was almost better than the fights. But my anxiety? It spiraled out of control. I couldn't even look at myself in the mirror without feeling disgusted, worthless, ashamed.

My daughter ended up living with us part-time during all of this. And to this day, she still hates him for what he put me through.

I thought I was protecting her by hiding in the bathroom to cry. I thought if I kept it away from her eyes, she’d be okay. But kids… they know. Even at a young age, they see what we don’t say. They feel the energy. They hear the silence. They carry our pain even when we try to bury it.

I really did love him. Or at least, I loved who I thought he was.

But the truth is, he didn’t love me — he loved that he could control me. And I was too broken to see it for what it was. I let him shape me into someone I barely recognized. After two years of being dragged down so far, I couldn’t even look myself in the eye, I finally started to realize I had to leave.

I moved out once — stayed with a friend for a month — but went back like so many women do. I didn’t feel safe, but I didn’t feel strong either. That’s when I did something bold. I signed a lease behind his back. And when he found out, it was like the world ended. The relationship exploded… for a couple of weeks.

Then my grandfather died. And suddenly, he was back in my life. Playing the role of comforter. Acting like he cared. I stopped setting up the apartment I had just leased and moved right back in with him. I paid for a place I never even lived in for four months — just in case. That’s how unsure I was. That’s how trapped I felt.

But eventually, I hit my breaking point.

I went on vacation and gave him one last ultimatum: either be all in or I was done. And for the first time, he made the decision for me — he chose to be done. It absolutely shattered me. At the time, I thought my world was ending. But now? I’m so grateful he made that choice… because I don’t think I would’ve had the strength to walk away on my own.

When I got back, we saw each other one last time. It was hard to let go — we were deeply trauma bonded. Our connection felt intense, addictive, impossible to quit. But one day… we just never talked again. And that silence? It sent me into therapy for the first time in my adult life.

That was the beginning of me finally choosing me.

I didn’t leave that relationship fully healed. I left with scars, guilt, and years of unprocessed pain. But I also left with something else — proof that I could choose myself, even when it hurt. And that was the beginning of everything.