still waters rise collective

My name is Rachel, and I’ve been told that I care too much. That I give too much. That I do too much. Not in a tender way, but in a mocking, dismissive tone. The man who promised to love me rolls his eyes at the very parts of me that love the hardest. He calls me obsessed, as though my devotion is a sickness, as though my attention is a flaw.

He made me feel like I was lucky to be with him. Like I wouldn’t make it on my own. He controlled the money, made all the decisions, and if I disagreed, he’d freeze me out for days. I started doubting my own memory. My own instincts. I stopped sharing my opinions altogether. The hardest part wasn’t leaving—it was realizing that the version of me I’d become wasn’t even mine.

At first, he made me feel like I was the most important person in the world. It was intense, exciting, almost like a movie. But slowly, things shifted. He hated when I spent time with friends. Accused me of flirting if I wore certain clothes. And when I tried to talk about how I felt? He’d turn it around and make me feel dramatic or ungrateful. But I keep thinking, why do I feel so small when I’m supposed to feel loved?

There were no bruises. No yelling. Just the slow erosion of who I was. He’d correct me constantly—in front of people. I’d laugh it off. He made decisions for me, convinced me I couldn’t handle things on my own. I started apologizing all the time—for things I hadn’t even done.