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I'M THE PROBLEM

“ Y ou are so abusive,” Timmy sneers, his voice sharp and cutting. His eyes narrow, his face twisting with disdain. “You pretend to be all sweet and cute, but you’re just a fucking bitch. It’s all an act. You’re a real piece of work. I see who you really are. I see you, Margaux.”

The words hit me like yet another slap. My heart stings with the venom in his tone, and a tight knot forms in my chest. I frown, my voice wavering, but rising. “I am who I say I am, Timmy. No more, no less.”

His gaze darkens, his eyes turning into sinister slits, malice swimming almost visibly beneath the surface. There’s a hatred there that’s become disturbingly familiar. “You call me names,” he snaps. “You make me feel bad about myself. You’re the problem in this relationship, not me.”

The absurdity of it is so blatant that, for a brief second, a twisted laugh bubbles up in my throat. But there’s no humor in any of this. My stomach churns with frustration and disbelief, and the anger inside me flares.

I’ve heard this script too many times now—the constant role reversal, the way he twists reality to suit his narrative. It’s always my fault, even though I’ve basically stopped giving him any constructive feedback, or asking him to have any accountability. My words, my actions, my existence, somehow warped into the root of every conflict we have. It’s a sick game he plays. He prods and pokes me all day with passive-aggressive remarks, dragging his feet when it comes to helping with the simplest of tasks, making snide digs when I cook or go about other aspects of my routine.

And when I finally do snap from time to time—because no one can take endless poking without breaking—he smirks. He points at me with gleeful satisfaction, like a child finally triggering a sibling into reacting.

“See?” he’ll say, his voice smug and triumphant. “Look at you. Here she is. The real Margaux.”

My heart sinks every time he says it. That phrase. It’s not just the words themselves, but the way he says them, like he’s caught me in a trap I didn’t know I was walking into.

He used to say, ‘there she is’ when I laughed or smiled, looking at me with adoration. But now, the words have been twisted into something horrible. He acts like each time I react to his inappropriate behavior, this outburst defines who I really am, and everything I do outside of it—the patience, the care, the love—is just an elaborate performance.

I feel the frustration bubbling under my skin, burning to scream, to fight back, to explain. Because the ‘real’ Margaux he’s so proud of revealing isn’t real at all—it’s a product of his relentless needling, his constant erosion of my boundaries, his slow poisoning of my peace.

But then a darker thought creeps in—isn’t this what abusers say? They justify their actions—‘I wouldn’t have hit her if she didn’t push me.’ ‘I only snapped because she drove me to it.’ It’s a slippery, terrifying slope, and I wonder if I’m slipping down it, too.

He’s projecting. I know that. I see it clearly, the way he twists everything about me into a reflection of his own behavior. ‘You’re not a nice person.’ ‘You can’t be trusted.’ ‘No wonder your friends don’t like you.’ Every accusation he hurls at me feels like a confession in disguise, the things he knows are true about himself but can’t face. It’s like a hall of mirrors where his worst qualities are forced onto me.

And still, I doubt myself. Every word, every argument, every step feels like walking on a tightrope stretched too thin, ready to snap at any moment. I feel unhinged, like maybe he’s right and I really am the one with the problem.

In moments of clarity, I realize the truth—I don’t wake up and pick fights with him. I don’t make it my mission to ruin his day. It’s not in my nature. And, in fact, I tiptoe around his moods so carefully that I sometimes feel like I’ve disappeared entirely.

But no matter how cautious I am, it’s never enough. He picks, and picks, and picks—until I can’t take it anymore, and the frustration spills over. Then it’s my fault. Always.

And slowly, he’s been closing me off from the world and continues to do so. It wasn’t so obvious at first, but now I feel it happening with increased velocity—the isolation creeping in like a thick fog. I came to Sunset Cay with dreams of community, of finding friends, of building a life. Now, I barely talk to anyone. I’m too embarrassed to reach out. What would I say? That my fiancé, the person who promised me the world, is the reason I feel trapped and alone? That I don’t feel safe in my own relationship?

More and more of the promises he made feel like lies now. Every time I try to make a friend, he pulls away, takes issue with something, or deserts me emotionally. It’s like he thrives on watching me flounder—like he gets off on tearing down every boundary I’ve tried to build, every bit of happiness I try to create.

I try to convince myself that we’re just going through a rough patch, that he’s stressed and it’ll pass. But his life seems to be a rough patch, finding thing after thing to have a problem with, whether legitimate or invented, and the agitation within him continues to build. His moods are darker, more volatile, than I’ve ever seen them. He’s no longer just poking for a reaction—he’s playing whack-a-mole with every bit of good we have.

One day, he’s cooking dinner and cuddling me on the couch, planning our next adventure. The next, he’s smashing dishes, screaming, or stressing over imaginary problems. He creates storms where there are none, inventing conflict out of thin air. And no matter how hard I try to anchor us, we’re caught in a riptide of his making.

And the scariest part? I’m starting to feel increasingly unsafe. Really unsafe.

It’s subtle, creeping in the way he watches me out of the corner of his eye, like he’s waiting for something. The way he looms over me when he’s agitated, how his words turn from sharp to sinister without warning. And those throwaway jokes—the ones where he casually talks about hurting me, about killing me. They linger.

He says them like they’re nothing. Like it’s funny. And then he apologizes, brushing it off as just a bad joke. But I can’t unhear them. They rattle around in my mind, filling the space where trust used to live.

Every day, I feel myself slipping further away from who I was. I wake up anxious, and go to bed exhausted. I have no energy to write, so I don’t even try most of the time. The good moments—the laughter, the cuddles, the plans—feel like little islands in an ocean of uncertainty, gradually getting flooded with more and more bad until each one is fully submerged.

And I don’t know how much longer I can tread water until I sink, too.

I know I likely need to leave. I know that. But then, where would I go? He’s isolated me so well that I don’t even know if I have anywhere to run.

And yet, staying feels like slowly drowning in quicksand, each day pulling me a little deeper, each fight taking another piece of me until there’s nothing left.

I sit there, my heart pounding, my hands clammy with fear. And, not for the first time, I wonder if love is supposed to feel this way.

And if it’s not, how the hell did I let it get this far?