No.

I cannot trade what I’ve given myself — freedom, safety, love — for a life I don’t want.

I won’t go back. Even though a small part of my heart, the part forever wounded and bleeding, whispers, “Maybe it’s okay this time.”

No.

I felt terrified. That’s why I got into the car with the dog and trash bags of clothes and drove. And drove. And drove. Your text said, “No note?”

No.

I asked for money. Because I have nothing. You have everything. I’m starting over without hearth and home. I have a borrowed car. My very few treasures are tucked into a closet in a home that was never mine. Yes, I asked for money. You said

No.

You informed me that you’d thrown away everything I’d left behind. Anything you could see that I’d loved, worn, used, cherished went into the trash can. If you’d known about the boxes, I would’ve lost them, too. Does this anger pulsing through my veins help?

No.

You text me: We are both dealing with trauma. We should work through our trauma together. Come home so we can try again.

No.

I don’t want return to the house where I felt unsafe. The place where I was shrinking and shrinking into nothingness. Getting tinier and tinier so you couldn’t see me. Blame me. Hate me. Threaten me. You want me to come back?

No.

I cannot trade what I’ve given myself — freedom, safety, love — for a life I don’t want. You said you hated me. I believed you. You said you wanted to hurt me. I believed you. You said you should kill me. I believed you.

Now, you want me to pretend like you didn’t mean those awful, evil things you said. Pretend like I’m not scared. Pretend like nothing ever happened.

No.

No.

No.

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