I’m afraid for you.

How many chances will you give?  How many chances before you lose all hope, all sense of yourself? How many chances before you find yourself trapped where you don’t want to be, and don’t know how to get out? How many chances?

Like a broken record, you spin, skipping at the same part every time, jumping back to the same place. It’s a vicious, beautiful cycle. It’s addictive, the promise of change, the glimmer of hope. The thought that maybe, this time, when they say “I’ll get better,” they mean it.

I’m afraid for you.

You know you’re unhappy, you’ve said so yourself. Do you remain with the cycle, with the decline of your own happiness, because of comfort? Because you’re used to it, you know how to handle it, you’ll just deal with it the way you always do? Or is it because of fear? The haunting, horrifying idea that no one will ever love you the way this person does, that you don’t deserve better, that there’s no one else out there who wants you?

Why not fight for your happiness? Why not take the time to realize this is your life, not someone else’s? You own your happiness. No one can tell you what makes you happy. Perhaps this is why you stay– despite how you act, despite what you say, you’re happy in this never ending cycle of arguing and drama.

I’m afraid for you.

People always say they’re going to change, they’ll try to get better. We love them, and we believe them. They hurt us, but we want to believe them. They’re lying. Give it a day, a week, a month, and old habits will return. Like a broken record, you’ll hit that same mark, and skip right back to the start.

As your friend, I want to see you happy. If that means trying– again— to fix things, I want you to try. Again.

As your sister, I have to say: You’re an idiot. And I’m afraid for you.



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