The Rest of You May As Well Log Off.
There comes a time in every former trauma dumpling’s life when the clouds part, the birds chirp, and some suspiciously handsome man with stable communication skills and actual emotional intelligence shows up. For me, it happened eight months ago. And now? Honestly—I’m unwell. In the best way possible. But still: unwell.
You see, when you’ve spent your whole life surviving—conversion therapy, being a fat ass, cancer, abandonment, Republicans—and suddenly someone shows up who doesn’t make your nervous system scream “danger!”… you’re left with a disturbing question: What the hell do I do now?
I mean, I won. Game over. Boss defeated. Final form unlocked. Queue the credits. Roll the tear-streaked montage. Cue Sarah McLachlan singing softly in the background.
I should be dancing in the streets. I should be screaming from the rooftops. But instead, I’m lying in bed at 3:00 AM wondering why I’m still anxious. It’s like my trauma brain is standing in the corner of my psyche like, “Okay, but what if he leaves you for someone with no insomnia and less baggage?”
1. Love, Actually… Is Terrifying
No one tells you that being loved well is basically a series of panic attacks disguised as date nights. He listens? He remembers things? He tells me I’m handsome even when I look like a bloated tick in pajama pants and a Kamala Harris T-Shirt from the 2024 election?
Suspicious.
He took me for expensive BBQ once while I was on chemo knowing full well I’d throw it up just so I could taste food. I wept like a Victorian widow. I told him I loved him and then spent 48 hours mentally preparing for his departure because surely he’ll realize I’m a mess. Spoiler: he didn’t. He brings me Reese’s and kisses my bald head like it was an honor. What kind of emotionally regulated nonsense is this?
2. When “The One” Isn’t a Red Flag Disguised as a Human
Here’s the thing—Matthew isn’t perfect. He sometimes tells the same stories over and over. He uses the word “that’s whats up” without flinching. But he doesn’t scream at me. He doesn’t ghost me. He doesn’t gaslight me. He doesn’t cheat on me while claiming he’s “just confused.”
Which makes me wonder… have I truly healed? Or have I just gotten really good at pretending I’m normal until 3am when I spiral about whether I’m “fun enough”?
It’s like training your whole life for emotional warfare, only to find out the new battlefield is brunch with his family. I showed up with a bottle of wine and a trauma flashback. They showed up with matching sweaters and potato salad. Do you know how disorienting that is?
3. Surviving Is a Full-Time Job, Thriving Feels Unpaid
For 40 years, I was sprinting through a minefield. Now, someone handed me a hammock and a smoothie and I don’t know where to put the trauma.
I keep waiting for the catch. The twist. The moment he says, “Actually, I’m moving to Utah to join a polygamist goat cult. It’s not you, it’s the prophecy.”
But nope. He texts back. He remembers our anniversary. He plans trips. He scratches Daisy’s belly like she’s his dog now too. And every time he does, I panic just a little, because this is not how my story was supposed to go. I was the wounded one. The survivor. The cynical bitch who blogged about being unlucky in love while sipping Diet Dr. Pepper and yelling at Survivor.
Now I’m soft. Loved. Safe.
God help me—I might even be happy.
4. Is This… the Endgame?
So what now?
I guess I keep waking up next to this wonderful, infuriating, kind-as-hell man and letting myself believe it’s real. I let the armor rust. I let the sarcasm soften. I kiss him on the forehead when he’s asleep and say thank you to a universe I spent years flipping off.
And maybe—just maybe—I stop waiting for the other shoe to drop. Maybe I believe that I deserve this. That surviving wasn’t the end, it was the prequel. And this? This right here?
This is the love story. Unscripted. Undeserved. Unbelievably mine.