The Weight of Trust: Part 1

Today has been one of the most emotionally draining days I’ve had in a long time. Tears have consumed me, and the ache in my chest feels unbearable. It’s been a year since I’ve seen my son. What’s worse, he won’t even answer my calls or respond to my messages. My ex-husband has made it a point to remind me that my son allegedly “hates” me, claiming that my son now sees the “truth” about me and the supposed lies I’ve told.

It’s all projection, of course. My ex’s favorite pastime: turning his misdeeds, his mistakes, and his toxic behavior into weapons against me. As if enduring a 10-year marriage filled with gaslighting and manipulation wasn’t enough, he continues to rewrite history to fit his narrative, leaving me to pick up the shattered pieces of our shared past.
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What pains me most, perhaps, is the realization that I let this happen. I trusted him—again. Despite every warning from my gut, I allowed my son to move out of state with his father, convinced that it was the right thing to do. I’ll never understand why I continue to ignore my intuition, that small but persistent voice inside me. Now, here I sit, watching the fallout of that decision unfold. My son has been pulled further and further away, not just from me but from his stepdad, his siblings, his half-siblings, and his step-siblings. My ex’s manipulation is nothing if not predictable, yet it still cuts deep every time.
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For my own sanity, I feel compelled to write this all down. I need to untangle the web of lies, gaslighting, and distortions that have clouded my memories and left me questioning the past. There’s no making this up; the truth is too wild, too painful, and, frankly, not flattering to me either. But it’s real. And maybe writing it all out will help me find clarity amid the chaos.

What will I do with this account of my life? I don’t know. Perhaps I’ll write a book and finally give in to my friends’ insistence that I share my story. Maybe it will become a TikTok series, a raw and unfiltered tell-all. Or perhaps this will remain just for me—a private account of survival, healing, and resilience. Whatever the purpose, I know I can’t keep these feelings and stories bottled up any longer.
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This is my truth, messy and imperfect, but mine nonetheless. And today feels like the first step toward reclaiming it.