It’s 1:11 a.m., and here I am, sitting on my bed with my laptop, writing this article—sweaty, sad, and happy all at once. A whirlwind of emotions rushes through me, all rooted in the memories of my bravery eight years ago when I walked out of my abusive marriage.
For the past eight years, I have lived in a constant state of fear and flight, a lingering residue from sharing a home with someone who repeatedly threatened my life, making me feel like my very existence could be snatched away at any moment and made to look like an accident.
I dare say that I haven’t truly been “okay” for these eight years. As a way to cope, I’ve channelled all my energy into my work and the things I love, becoming a chronic introvert who only steps out when I feel ready.
August always stirs something different in me; it’s the month that marks my bravery, the month I chose myself over the nightmare of an abusive marriage. But this August hits differently. Perhaps it’s my hormones, or the fact that I turned 40 this year. Perhaps it’s the weight of realizing how life has shaped me—how I am not okay, but I tell myself I will be fine.
It’s hard to reconcile how I flipped from being an extrovert before marriage to a woman who now prefers privacy. I can’t fully grasp how that shift happened. It feels like something inside me died the moment I made the wrong decision to enter into that marriage—a particular drive, a spark that hasn’t returned since I left.
There’s a part of me that I’m searching for—the young girl who was the life of the party in the university. I hope I find her again, for my own sake. I’ve been through so much that sometimes I wonder why God created me in the first place. (Tears flow as I type these words.)
To those who feel I am laid back and not doing enough, please let me be. We don’t all have to chase success in the same way. I am doing my best, even with all the constraints I have privately dealt with.
I realize that in my journey of healing, I may have hurt a few people, perhaps those I distanced myself from. To anyone who felt pushed away while I was trying to figure out my life, I sincerely apologize. I’m sorry for those who wanted to help but whom I didn’t accept out of fear of humiliation.
However, I am not sorry for standing up and doing what was right for myself and my children. I am not sorry to those who betrayed my trust, or those who kept in touch with my abuser. I am not sorry to those who have tried to use my lived experience to take away what’s good about me or to those who have tried to oppress, malign, or make me look crazy because of it.
I am not sorry for pushing away that person who made my life difficult in my matrimonial home. May God forgive you for all you did (You know yourself).
I am not sorry for keeping my distance from family members who openly rejected me. And I am not sorry for cutting off people who continuously used my status as an excuse to take opportunities away from me.
I have truly lived a life of struggle, and now, I am tired of chasing everything. The other day, a friend told me I was suffering from “loyalty syndrome” because I always put others before myself. I find myself wanting to support people who don’t even want to be publicly associated with me. I throw my weight behind folks who only see me as someone who isn’t sharp enough.
One of the hardest parts of these past eight years has been dealing with those who helped me but have continuously used it as leverage to remind me that I owe them. “Oh, I gave you N50k when you needed ticket money that year, and now you’re big and don’t remember us anymore.” I’ve heard this line so many times, and it’s why I find it hard to ask anyone for anything. I would rather sell sand in the desert on an empty stomach than be indebted to anyone again. I am tired.
Yet, despite all this, I am deeply grateful to all who came through for me and my children eight years ago. Your support meant everything to me during one of the darkest times in my life.
This August feels like a reckoning of sorts, a moment of deep reflection on how far I’ve come, how much I’ve lost, and how much I’m still searching for. But despite everything, I hold on to the hope that I will be okay, that I will find that part of me that seems lost, and that someday, I will look back on this journey with a sense of peace and understanding.
Please don’t suggest therapy after reading this or try to diagnose me. Therapy is what gave me the courage to write this in the first place. I’m self-aware and fully recognize how much I’ve released, let go, and healed from. But that doesn’t mean I should forget everything and not use my voice to express myself.
Thank you.