I’m tired of pretending I’m okay

I’m tired of pretending I’m okay.

I’m tired of being used and calling it loyalty. Tired of being the one everyone drains when they’re empty, then avoids when I finally need something back. I show up bruised and bleeding emotionally, still asking others if they’re alright, while nobody thinks to ask me the same. I’ve learned how invisible pain becomes when you’re “the strong one.” People don’t see strength—they see convenience.

I gave too much of myself to people who never earned access. I offered empathy to those who weaponized it, mistook my patience for permission, my silence for consent. I bent until breaking so others could stay comfortable. I swallowed resentment, excused neglect, and told myself understanding was noble—when really, it was self-abandonment. There’s a special kind of cruelty in realizing you’ve been emotionally generous with people who wouldn’t even notice if you disappeared.

I’m done pretending I’m okay to protect other people’s illusions. I’m not healed—I’m awake. And waking up hurts. It hurts to admit I’ve been surviving on scraps of reciprocity, that I’ve been loyal to people who were only loyal to what I provided. This isn’t me becoming cold. This is me becoming unreachable to those who only come to take. I still have a heart—but it’s no longer an open door.