I remember having this page in my notebook where I scribbled ‘NOT REAL’ over and over again.
He kept insisting I’d done things I hadn’t, twisting my words, warping my memories, making me doubt myself.
“You said it, don’t lie to me.”
“You did it, don’t pretend you don’t remember.”
“You always do this.”
It was relentless.
At first, I argued. Told him he was wrong. That I’d never said that, never done that. But he just shook his head, smirking like I was pathetic.
And the more he repeated it, the more I started to wonder. Did I?
I knew the truth. I did. But the way he looked at me, the way he spoke with such certainty—he made me feel like I was losing my mind. Like I was a bad person.
So I wrote it down.
I needed proof, needed something solid to hold onto.
NOT REAL.
I scribbled the words over and over again, pressing the pen so hard the ink bled through.
NOT REAL. NOT REAL. NOT REAL.
My hand ached, my grip tight, my knuckles white. I kept going, kept scratching at the page like I could tear his voice out of my head.
I scribbled so hard, my pen went through the page.
It was like all the shouting inside me found its way out onto that paper.
But it didn’t stop him.
And no matter how many times I wrote it, he still made me feel like maybe—just maybe—he was right.
