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THE ONLY BLOCKING I APPROVE OF IS IN ROLLER DERBY

I f there was a soundtrack to my life right now, it would be aching, bittersweet, tinged with regret.

Timmy’s silence stretches, heavy and sharp, as I wait for his response, amplifying the growing tension between us. I can feel it—the way he’s building up, gathering his words like stones, ready to hurl them.

“Timmy, that’s not what happened and you know it,” I say, my voice trembling despite my effort to keep calm. My heart races as the knot in my stomach coils, twisting tighter with each passing second. I know I’m right, but calling him out always makes me feel like I’m stepping onto thin ice.

His face shifts, his eyes narrowing, his mouth curling into a thin, tight line.

He doesn’t respond right away. Instead, he just stares, his silence deliberate and punishing, growing heavier by the moment.

“Are you seriously accusing me of lying about something so stupid?” he asks, his tone calm in a way that makes my skin crawl. The softness in his tone is unsettling—it’s not kindness, but a quiet, controlled rage. He crosses his arms tightly across his chest as if he’s pulling back from me, protecting himself from my ‘attack’, retreating behind a wall of self-righteousness. “After everything I’ve done for you? After all the times we’ve had together? This is how you treat me?” His face twists into a wounded expression, like a hurt puppy dog, his eyes downcast, his lips trembling ever so slightly.

He plays the victim so convincingly that I almost believe I hurt him.

It’s hard to believe that we’re arguing, once again, about him going out at night to smoke cigarettes. He told me he’d smoked alone, and then he later admitted he’d smoked with a woman in her seventies. I’m not at all worried about her, obviously—just annoyed he lied about it.

I can feel the weight of the guilt he’s trying to push on me, almost suffocating, but I hold my ground. “Timmy, I don’t want to fight with you. I can see you’re upset, and I am, too. All I want is for you to admit that you lied. You weren’t honest, and I know it. I just want to talk about why you did and we can move on.”

My words hang in the air, but instead of acknowledgment, I see his expression change to something darker. “You’re fucking unbelievable, you know that?” he spits, his voice low and sulky, tinged with bitterness. “You always do this. You’re just like my ex. Always trying to make me the bad guy. I guess that’s what I get for being so kind and generous and patient with you? Fucking bullshit,” he mutters.

His words are like little jabs, making me second-guess myself, even though I know what he said first, and then what he said second, and the two don’t align. My mind races. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I’m overreacting. Maybe I am too demanding.

Without waiting for a response, he turns on his heel.

“Timmy—.”

“You’re pathetic,” he spits over his shoulder, venom lacing his words.

Before I can even reply, he swishes the door open and I hear the familiar beep as he locks it behind him. The door slamming shakes the walls of the apartment, and I flinch, then sit in disbelief, stunned, the sudden silence suffocating .

My chest tightens, and all I can feel is the hollow, sinking feeling like I’m drowning in quicksand.

I know it was right for me to bring this up—I had to for my own sanity—but he’s left me feeling like I’m the one who’s being punished. My mind races as I replay the conversation in my head over and over again. How could I have got it so wrong? I just wanted the truth, but now all I feel is a deep, churning emptiness, like the ground has been ripped out from underneath me. Somehow, as usual, I’ve become the villain in his story.

I try to replay the conversation in my mind, but it’s just a jumbled mess of accusations and guilt. I was only asking for honesty, but now all I feel is a hollow ache, like I’ve been punished for daring to question him.

Timmy insisted early on that we share our phone passwords.

“I have nothing to hide,” he’d said, “I want you to know you can trust me. I’ll do anything to make you feel comfortable and secure in this relationship, because I love you so much. I’d do anything to make you happy.”

I’d agreed, because I’m not doing anything behind his back. For the most part, with obvious exceptions, what I found in his phone put me at ease.

There were things from the past—messages and contacts that made me feel uncomfortable—but I convinced myself that these don’t matter anymore, and, when he got his new phone number, that took many of those concerns away. He’s not reaching out to new people, just keeping in touch with a limited circle.

I checked his Facebook messenger, just to be sure, and it was the same.

I felt relieved.

Then, shortly after, he insisted that we share locations.

“Especially living out here,” he says. “If we get separated for any reason, it could be really dangerous. So we should know where the other person is at all times. Plus, I want you to know that you can trust me.”

At the time, it felt like an extra layer of trust. Practical, even thoughtful.

I’ve never been in a relationship where I’ve felt the need to really check my partner’s phone or share location. I’ve laughed about couples that share Facebook accounts.

And everything he said made sense at the time. Made it sound like it was coming from a place of love, so I went with it.

But now I see how easily he’s used these promises against me.

The location-sharing promise soon turned into another manipulation. Now, every time we argue—no matter how minor—he switches off his location. Sometimes for hours, sometimes longer.

“Timmy, why bother sharing locations if you just block it every time you’re mad, which is often?” I ask him, exasperated.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his expression solemn. “I promise I won’t block you ever again.”

“Seriously? You keep saying that, but the moment your feelings are hurt, you do.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m really sorry. I understand.”

But the promises mean nothing anymore. Each time, it happens again. And again.

He knows it bothers me, and so it’s become another cruel form of punishment.

It feels like his behavior is escalating, and he’s going back on every promise he’s made to me. He seems to get a sick, perverse enjoyment out of my constant misery. And he creates conflict over literally nothing.

Anything can set him off. He’s getting mad because I’m not doing dishes to his liking now. Because I move around on the bed while I’m working when he wants to be asleep, even though it’s the middle of the day .

He’s a rageful powder keg, and he’s acting more and more unhinged. I don’t know what’s driving it, and I try to be sympathetic to his mental health issues. But it seems like he’s trying to destroy this, to destroy us, and I don’t know how much longer I can keep doing this.

I’m sick of crying.

I’m tired of becoming someone I’m not.

I need some reprieve from this constant madness.

But he seems to thrive on drama, and look for it in places it doesn’t exist.

The happier, the more successful I am, the more he seems to want to punish me.

But then he’s the one who comes back to comfort me, to give me the notion he’s remorseful, and that he’s truly going to change.

Yet his words and actions are getting further and further apart, like they’re magnetically repelling each other. And he’s seeming more and more justified in his actions.

I can’t do this anymore.