I Would Rather Be In Bed

Strong Women Carry Baggage (And Mine Has a Broken Wheel and a Body Count)

There’s this myth about strong women, like we’re forged from steel and bad decisions, impervious to things like heartbreak, regret, or the soul-crushing weight of our own overthinking. That we walk away from love like it was a slight inconvenience, shake the dust off our hands, and march into a self-improvement montage set to an empowering pop anthem.

I hate to break it to you, but that’s not how this works.

Because here’s the truth: strong women do leave. We gather our self-respect from the wreckage, patch up the parts of ourselves that someone else spent years chiseling away, and we go. But what no one tells you is that leaving doesn’t mean you’re free.

No, we walk away carrying the whole damn relationship in our bones. We carry the questions, the what-ifs, the moments we twisted ourselves into unrecognizable shapes just to make it work. We carry the weight of every single chance we gave them, every time we convinced ourselves that this time—this time—things would be different.

I lost count of how many times I forgave. How many times I picked up the phone even after he walked away, after he made it clear that I was disposable, replaceable, an option instead of a priority. How many times I let him back in, knowing full well that he had no intention of staying.

And every time, he promised. Every time, he swore up and down that this was it, that he saw the damage, that he knew what he had done and would finally be the man I needed him to be.

But let’s be honest—he never changed a damn thing.

He just got better at manipulating me into believing he would.

Belittling me when I dared to stand up for myself. Tearing me down in ways so subtle that I didn’t even realize how deep the cuts went until I was standing in front of a mirror, unable to recognize the woman staring back at me.

Gaslighting me into thinking that the problem wasn’t him—it was me. I was too much. Too sensitive, too emotional, too demanding. I needed to chill, to not take everything so seriously, to trust him. Because, of course, the issue was never his behavior. It was always my reaction to it.

And let’s talk about what I was supposed to “trust.”

I was supposed to trust that work always came first, that he was just busy when he could make time for literally anything else. That the women he constantly surrounded himself with—the ones he knew damn well made me uncomfortable, the ones he would go out of his way to spend time with while telling me I was just jealous—were nothing to worry about.

That was my role. To sit there, quiet and patient, waiting for a man who always had something more important to do.

I spent years begging for scraps of his time, convincing myself that I was asking too much when all I really wanted was to matter.

And I still left that relationship feeling like I was the problem.

But here’s the thing that really haunts me—he didn’t just break my heart. He broke me.

He twisted me into someone I don’t even recognize.

Somewhere between the gaslighting, the manipulation, and the endless cycle of being pushed aside and pulled back in, I became angry. Mean. Resentful.

I started snapping at people, picking fights over things that never used to bother me. I stopped trusting anyone, assuming every word, every intention, was some carefully placed lie meant to hurt me later. I built walls so high and so thick that even I can’t break through them now.

I hate the version of me that came out of that relationship.

I miss the woman I was before. The one who didn’t second-guess every interaction. The one who laughed easily, who wasn’t constantly exhausted from waiting for the next betrayal, who didn’t carry every conversation like a loaded weapon, ready for the moment someone proved they were just another disappointment.

But she’s gone.

I don’t know where she went, and I don’t know how to find her.

And that’s the part that keeps me up at night. Not the heartbreak, not the loneliness, but the realization that I let someone turn me into a person I never wanted to be. That I fought so hard to hold onto him, and in the process, I lost myself.

Even now, even knowing what I know, there’s a part of me that still aches. That still wonders if maybe—maybe—I could’ve done something different. That still fights the stupid, desperate urge to reach out, just to see if he’d pretend to care for five minutes before reminding me, yet again, that I was never worth the effort.

Because here’s the thing no one tells you about leaving someone who was never really yours to begin with: it still hurts like hell.

And you’d think, after everything, that pain would come with some kind of clarity. Some grand, empowering revelation. But no, it just comes in waves. One minute, I’m fine. Strong. Independent. Thriving. The next, I’m in my car gripping the steering wheel so hard my knuckles turn white, screaming into the void because I feel like I’m going to explode from the sheer weight of it all.

And the loneliness? That’s the real kicker.

Because even when the relationship was crumbling, even when I knew he wasn’t the person I could count on, he was still there. A warm body, a presence. And now? Now, it’s just me. Alone. Watching the shadows stretch across my bedroom wall, wondering if this gaping hole in my chest will ever close.

And worst of all?

I still have moments where I want to text him. Not because I want him back, not because I think he’s changed, but because the loneliness convinces me, for a split second, that even a broken connection is better than none at all. That maybe, just maybe, if I reach out, I won’t feel like I’m drowning in silence.

But I know how that story ends. I know the script by heart.

And I’m done performing.

So here I am, baggage in hand, no destination in sight. I don’t have a clean, inspirational ending for you. I don’t have a guidebook for how to make it through the nights when your chest feels like it’s caving in. All I know is that I’m still standing.

And maybe—just maybe—that’s enough for now.