Author Archives: Kayla Louise

I thought I was doing better, but now I’m not so sure. How long is this going to last? How long am I going to feel this way? I hated him. Or at least, I thought I did. So why do I miss him? Why do I wish he was still here when he hurt me so badly?

It’s been a little over a week, and I feel like I’m falling apart. I’ve lost almost 12 pounds, but not because I’m trying. My thoughts won’t slow down. My mind is scrambled eggs—messy, unorganized, impossible to sort through. And on top of all the emotions, he’s left me in a bad spot. He was supposed to help me fill the oil tank, but instead, he left it empty for me to deal with. Now I have to come up with the money. And what’s his excuse? That he’s paying for two places. That’s not my fault. He chose to walk away. He abandoned his family.

I was trying to fix things. I wanted this to work. And yet, here I am, alone in this mess while he moves on.

So why do I still wish he was lying next to me? Why do I feel this ache for someone who made the choice to leave? I feel so stupid. I can’t stop crying. I know I should be relieved, or at least angry enough to push through, but instead, I’m just… a mess.

Maybe this is part of healing. Maybe this is what grief looks like, even when you know someone wasn’t good for you. But right now, it just feels unbearable.

Lately, I’ve been getting a lot of support from the people around me. It’s comforting, but at the same time, it stings. Because no matter how much love surrounds me, I know that in just 28 days, everything changes again.

Why did this have to happen in February, the shortest month of the year? It feels like time is slipping through my fingers faster than I can process it. Just as I’m starting to feel like I belong, I’m reminded that this isn’t permanent. And that feeling—belonging—is something I hate because it makes leaving even harder.

But maybe, just maybe, this was necessary. Over the past year, I’ve burned bridges, hurt people, and distanced myself from relationships I should have nurtured. Now, I have the chance to fix what’s broken. To make amends. To prove to myself and to others that I can be better.

Still, there’s a selfish part of me that whispers: What if I stayed? What if I continued my life here, even though my daughter isn’t with me? The thought alone makes me feel guilty. But it’s the truth—I want her here. I want to bring her into this new life I’m beginning to love. I want to share this fresh start with her.

But now, that’s not an option. And that reality is crushing.

So, I have 28 days. 28 days to figure out what comes next. 28 days to decide how to carry this new version of myself forward, even if it means leaving behind a life I was finally starting to embrace.

Last Friday, my world shattered in a way I never saw coming. It started as an ordinary day—actually, better than ordinary. Work was amazing, one of the best days I’d had in a long time. I came home to my partner cooking dinner, and we had plans to watch a movie together. Everything felt… normal. Stable. Hopeful.

And then it all unraveled.

He told me he needed to run out to the car for a moment and promised he’d be right back. But he didn’t come back. He left. He blocked me. He was gone.

I later found out his mother had called him to ensure he’d follow through with their “plan.” A plan to abandon us. His family. The people he was supposed to care for and build a life with.

The cruelest part of it all? I thought things were improving. We’d been attending couples counseling. I’d committed to an intensive outpatient program (IOP) to work on myself. We’d been fighting less. I really believed we were starting to grow as a family.

But now, I can’t stop crying. I can’t stop replaying it in my head. The betrayal. The abandonment. The sudden, jarring emptiness.

And the fallout has only begun. I’ll be moving in with my mom soon, but I can’t take my cats with me. My partner—if I can even call him that anymore—has agreed to take just one of them. But my other cat, my elderly companion of nearly 16 years, needs a home. The thought of giving her up breaks me in ways I can’t even describe.

I feel like I’ve lost everything. My family, my stability, my future. Even my beloved pets are slipping through my fingers. It’s like every piece of my life is being stripped away, and I’m left standing in the wreckage, unsure of what to do next.

I don’t feel strong. I don’t feel like I can keep going. Right now, the pain is suffocating, and I don’t know how to rise above it. But I’m writing this because I have to believe that I’m not alone. Maybe someone out there has been through something similar. Maybe they’ve felt this broken and found a way to heal.

For now, I’ll take it one day—one breath—at a time. It’s all I can do.

To anyone reading this: if you’re in a dark place, know that I see you. I feel your pain. And even if we don’t feel strong, maybe we can find a way to rebuild. Together.

Yesterday, my partner broke up with me. Again. But this time, it feels different. It wasn’t the usual pattern—the one I’ve come to expect. Typically, he breaks up with me, says something mean, and we go days without speaking. Then, like clockwork, he comes home, finds me in bed, and snuggles up next to me like nothing happened. But not this time.

This time, he told his mom he was done with me.

And now, I’m left sitting here, feeling like my entire world is falling apart. I’m questioning why I feel this way—why I feel so sad, so empty, like I don’t even want to keep going.

What hurts the most is how things seemed to be getting better. We were fighting less, communicating more—or so I thought. I had started to feel like maybe we were finally in a good place, or at least headed in that direction. And then, just like that, it all came crashing down.

It doesn’t help that none of my friends are answering their phones. I’ve tried reaching out, desperate for someone to talk to, someone to tell me that I’m not crazy for feeling this way. But all I’m met with is silence, and it’s making me feel even more alone.

Right now, it feels like I have no one.

I’m writing this not because I have all the answers, but because I need to put these feelings somewhere. Maybe you’ve been here before. Maybe you’ve felt this same heaviness in your chest, this same emptiness that feels impossible to fill. If you have, I want you to know that I see you.

And maybe, just maybe, writing this is my way of reminding myself that I’ll get through this too. One day at a time. One breath at a time. Even when it feels impossible.

If you’re feeling like this right now, please know you’re not alone. Let’s remind each other that we’re stronger than we think—even on days when we don’t believe it ourselves.

There are days when no matter how hard I try, it feels like it’s never enough. Today is one of those days. I’ve been fighting to create a better life for myself and my daughter, but every step I take seems to lead to criticism instead of encouragement.

I’ve been applying for jobs closer to my mom, hoping to bridge the distance and make things easier for everyone. But according to her, they’re still not close enough. I can’t afford to move yet because my credit is in rough shape, so I took a second job in my area to tackle my bills and improve my financial standing. It felt like a step in the right direction—a proactive way to start fixing things.

But when I shared this with my mom, instead of understanding or support, I was met with anger. She told me I should be working four jobs if I’m serious about moving closer. Her words cut deeper than I expected. She called me a bad mom, questioned how I could live so far from my daughter, and said things that made me feel small and incapable.

It’s hard to explain to someone who hasn’t experienced postpartum depression just how much of a toll it takes on you. A few weeks ago, I finally started brushing my teeth regularly again. That might seem small, but it was a huge milestone for me. I’m trying so hard to get back to a place where I can feel like myself, but the weight of PPD is relentless.

I feel so much guilt and shame. This isn’t how I imagined motherhood. I didn’t plan for this distance, this struggle, or these feelings. All I want is to be with my daughter and feel like I’m doing right by her. But how can I do that when I’m barely surviving myself?

Balancing the pressure of being a mom, trying to fix my finances, working two jobs, and managing my mental health feels impossible. I’m constantly questioning how I’m supposed to switch careers, find housing, and be the parent I want to be when I can hardly keep my head above water.

I know I’m not alone in feeling this way, and maybe someone out there reading this is in the same boat. If that’s you, know this: you’re trying, and that’s enough. Some days, all we can do is put one foot in front of the other. And on the days when even that feels too hard, it’s okay to pause and take a breath.

I don’t have the answers, and I’m still figuring things out. But I refuse to believe that my struggles define my worth as a mom. I love my daughter, and I’m doing everything I can to create a better life for her. That has to count for something.

I’ve come to realize something: I never want to say, “things are going well” again. Every time I do, it feels like I’m thrown ten steps back. It’s as if the universe hears those words and decides to test my resilience all over again. Right now, I’m in the middle of a whirlwind of emotions, and honestly, I’m conflicted about just about everything.

Let me start with what’s been consuming my mind: I’m trying to get a second job. The goal? Pay off my debt, improve my credit score, and move closer to my daughter. It’s a simple plan on paper, but in practice, it’s overwhelming. My mom, however, has her own ideas. She wants me to move in with her, but to do that, I’d have to get rid of my cats.

Here’s the problem: my relationship with my mom isn’t great, and my stepdad? Even worse. Moving in with them would be emotionally draining and, frankly, toxic. My mom insists that by refusing her offer, I’m choosing my cats over my daughter, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. Yes, I love my cats—they bring me comfort and stability—but the reality is I cannot live with her. I know what that environment would do to me mentally, and it’s not a sacrifice I can make.

As if navigating that wasn’t enough, things with my partner’s kids have been… complicated. What’s a nice way to say they’re not exactly house-trained? They’re loud, messy, and not very welcoming toward me. I know their mom has been vocal about not liking me, and it’s clear her feelings have influenced how they treat me. Since I stopped spending as much time with them, I’ve noticed a slight improvement in my mental health.

But despite these small wins, the big picture feels bleak. Who is going to rent a place to someone working 30 hours a week with a 600 credit score? And let’s not forget—I have pets, which makes finding a rental even harder. If I could have moved closer to my daughter weeks ago, I would have done it in a heartbeat.

I thought I was making progress. Mentally, I felt stronger for a while. In fact, I went 26 days without crying—a personal record for the year. That has to count for something, right? But now, I’m not so sure. Lately, it feels like the weight of everything is crushing me again.

Maybe it’s just one of those low moments, the kind you push through knowing things won’t stay this way forever. Or maybe this is just life testing me again, daring me to say, “things are going well” one more time.

For now, I’m holding onto the small wins, even if they feel insignificant in the grand scheme of things. Because sometimes, surviving the day is enough.

This week, I began my journey in an Intensive Outpatient Program (IOP). It’s been only one day, but already I feel…strange. Being surrounded by people who are bravely sharing their struggles has left me questioning my own. Compared to the heart-wrenching stories I’ve heard, my problems feel small—insignificant, even.

There’s a woman in my group whose daughter is dying. I can’t even imagine that kind of pain. And here I am, sitting in the same room, feeling disconnected from my own child. How can I open up about that? How can I say out loud that I struggle to feel love for my daughter when this woman would give anything just to have her child healthy?

I feel like a monster. I’m terrified of being judged. I’m judging myself constantly, so why wouldn’t everyone else?

Still, I know I’m here for a reason. I know my feelings matter, but it’s hard to convince myself of that when my emotions seem so pale in comparison to what others are facing.

On a more positive note, my life feels like it’s starting to move in a better direction—at least a little. My partner and I haven’t fought since Christmas Eve, and that feels good. But even in this small bit of peace, I feel disconnected. There’s no love, no spark. Just…nothing. I wonder if I’m even capable of loving anyone. That thought haunts me.

Blah. That’s the best way to describe how I feel right now. Just blah.

Adding to the weight, the bills keep piling up, and working 30 hours a week isn’t enough. I know I need to find a second job, but even thinking about it feels overwhelming. All I want is for my life to feel normal again—for me to feel normal again.

Starting this IOP was my first step toward figuring things out, and I hope it’s the right one. I’m trying to trust the process and hold onto the hope that I can get through this. I just want to be better—for myself, for my family, for my daughter.

Here’s to taking it one day at a time.

I haven’t been writing much lately, and honestly, it’s because I’ve been a mess. Life feels heavy right now. Some good things seem to be on the horizon—at least I hope so—but I’m still trying to navigate the storm I’m in.

One big change is that I’m a step closer to leaving my relationship. It’s a complicated feeling—one that’s both happy and sad at the same time. Is it normal to feel sad when an abusive relationship is coming to an end? Because that’s exactly where I’m at.

A part of me knows I need to leave him. I need to move forward and find peace. But another part of me hesitates. Maybe it’s the history, the hope I once had, or just the fear of starting over. He told me tonight that he doesn’t love me anymore, and the words stung, even though I know deep down that we’re not good for each other. In a moment of hurt and anger, I told him the world would be better if he wasn’t in it—something I regret saying but also feel reflects just how broken things have become.

I’m not the first person he’s hurt. I’m number four. He’s walked away from every family he’s ever had. Knowing this makes me feel like there’s no way we could ever fix what’s been broken. After all the mean and hurtful things we’ve said to each other, there’s no coming back.

But there’s a glimmer of hope. I’ve taken a step forward by applying for a job about an hour away, and I’m pretty sure I got it. It’s a small victory, one that feels like a way out. I know he wouldn’t follow me an hour away, which makes this feel like my chance to start fresh.

Still, the thought of leaving fills me with mixed emotions. It makes me happy, but it also makes me sad. I don’t want to start over—I just want to feel loved. I want to feel like I matter, and right now, I don’t. I know staying isn’t the answer, but leaving feels so uncertain.

I wish I had someone to talk to about all of this, someone who could listen without judgment and tell me what to do. I feel stuck between the person I am now and the person I want to be, and it’s exhausting.

For now, I’m trying to hold on to the hope that good things are coming, even if it’s hard to believe it sometimes. Maybe this new job will be the fresh start I need. Maybe this is the beginning of something better.

If you’ve ever been in this place—conflicted, scared, and unsure—I’d love to hear your story. Maybe we can remind each other that we’re not alone in this.

Today was supposed to be a simple day. My partner was supposed to finish work at 2 PM, but as I write this, it’s 4:57 PM, and there’s no sign of him. On top of that, he blocked me as soon as he left the house and turned off his location. These actions, though familiar, still sting.

I often write about how I’m treated, and I’ll admit—I still stay. But today, I’m reflecting on what led to this moment and the ongoing cycle of hurt.

The Holiday Party Dilemma

We both used to work together, and tomorrow is the annual holiday party. Initially, he told me he didn’t want me to come because, in his words, I’m embarrassing. But the irony isn’t lost on me—he’s the one who drinks excessively and ends up looking foolish.

Last year’s party was a prime example. I was nine months pregnant, quietly enduring the night, while he got drunk to the point of embarrassment. And yet, somehow, I became the scapegoat for his feelings of shame.

When the topic of this year’s party came up, it led to a fight. As always, he didn’t want me there, didn’t want to include me, and made me feel unwanted. It hurts more than I can put into words. It feels intentional—like he does these things to wound me.

After days of back and forth, he finally said I could come. But by then, I’d made up my mind—I didn’t want to go. Why would I willingly go to a place where I’m not wanted, especially with someone who finds me “embarrassing”?

When I told him I wasn’t going, he turned it around, acting like I was unreasonable. He begged me to come, saying he wanted me there. It left me feeling confused and emotionally exhausted.

A Growing Resentment

This morning, everything came to a head when he told me outright that I wasn’t allowed to go to the party after all. His behavior felt suspicious, and I told him so. Words were exchanged—mean ones, from both sides. The truth is, most of the things I said, I meant.

I love him, but I also think I hate him. And with each passing day, that hate grows.

Why I Stay

Writing this feels like an admission of defeat, but it’s also a moment of clarity. Everyone tells me I’m the crazy one, and honestly, I’m starting to believe it. But deep down, I know that these patterns—blocking me, shutting me out, belittling me—aren’t normal.

I don’t know how to move forward right now. But what I do know is that this situation isn’t healthy, and the cracks in my relationship are becoming harder to ignore. Maybe one day I’ll find the strength to leave—or maybe I’ll continue to stay, hoping things will change.

For now, all I can do is write. Writing is my outlet, my way of processing the chaos. And maybe, someday, it’ll be my way out.

I’ve been stuck in a cycle for so long, it’s hard to know where it ends and I begin. I hate him more than I love him. That truth has been weighing on my chest like a boulder. The way he talks to me isn’t okay. He tells me I’ve driven him to this point, that he’s never spoken to or treated anyone like this before. But I don’t believe him. He lies about so much—why should this be any different?

This weekend should be something to look forward to. It’s Christmas time, after all, a season that’s supposed to be filled with joy and warmth. But all I feel is dread. It’s my weekend with my daughter, a time I should treasure. Instead, his mother will be there, and I can’t help but feel the pit of discomfort settle deeper into my stomach.

Why is my mom letting her into our home? She’s made it clear she doesn’t like me—or my mom. She’s not a good woman. In the ten months since my daughter was born, she’s seen her exactly once. She doesn’t ask about her, doesn’t make an effort. Months ago, she claimed she would make a plan to see my daughter regularly. Three months passed before she texted again. Even then, the last time we had a plan, she canceled an hour before.

I don’t want her in my daughter’s life. My little girl doesn’t need someone who will hurt her with broken promises. I’ve been there. My dad was like that—always absent, always disappointing. My daughter deserves better.

And yet, here I am, feeling like I’m the one who’s failing. Everyone calls me crazy, constantly putting me down. It’s suffocating. But I’ve decided to take a step. I’ve signed up for a 12-week intensive therapy program—12 hours a week, more if they think I need it.

Maybe I am crazy. Maybe this will fix me. I don’t know what I’ll find on the other side of those 12 weeks, but I know what I hope for: strength. Strength to finally leave my abusive partner. Strength to believe in myself again.

I’m tired of living like this. Tired of feeling powerless. This isn’t the life I want for me, and it’s certainly not the life I want for my daughter. I don’t know if I’ll find the answers in therapy, but I do know this: I’m ready to fight for something better. For her. For me. For the life we deserve.

This is the beginning of my journey. I don’t know what lies ahead, but I’m determined to keep walking forward—one step at a time.