I am Melanie.
Okay, I’m not Melanie. I don’t want to use my real name, and the truth is, I feel ashamed. Melanie is a fantasy name I created as a child. Very few people know about this alter ego. Melanie is classy. She wears skirts and blouses, works as a secretary, types up text, and signs important papers. She’s poised and perfect—everything I felt I wasn’t.
In reality, I’m a 41-year-old entrepreneurial stay-at-home mom of two adored children: my 3 and a half year old daughter, let’s call her Eva, and my 18-month-old son, let’s call him Peter. I am currently living in Norway.
I believed I had done the necessary inner work to create a stable, healthy life for myself and my future family. I had been through the fire—diagnosed with borderline personality disorder about a decade ago, I spent six months in institutional therapy, followed by private therapy.
And it worked. Or at least, I thought it did.
Therapy wasn’t just a phase for me; it became a way of life. I prioritized my healing above almost everything else, investing time, energy, and resources. I believe I have spent the money I could have used to buy a car on therapy. That’s how deeply committed I was to changing my life.
By the time I was ready to have children, I felt transformed. I finally understood my patterns, where they came from, and how to change them. I felt confident in my ability to build a healthy, loving family. I threw myself into learning everything I could about personality disorders—reading books, studies, and articles; watching videos; and listening to podcasts. I was determined to break the cycle of emotional abuse and be fully healed before bringing children into the world.
For a while, I thought I had succeeded. I had done the work, built a stable life, and even met Him—Mr. Right. Or so I thought. He came into my life at just the right time, as I approached 35 and was ready to settle down. It felt like everything was falling into place.
He seemed like my ideal guy. Not the loud, grandiose narcissist you hear about, but someone who was perfect in every setting. A nice guy, polite, charming, from a seemingly good family, and easygoing. I thought I’d finally found what I was looking for—a "normal" guy with whom I could lead a "normal" life.
But over time, the illusion unraveled. After a year of juggling our relationship between two countries, we moved in together, transitioning abruptly from long-distance to no-distance during COVID. Once I moved to Norway to be together, we decided to start a family immediately. Within a short time, we had two babies, one after the other. However, with the added stress of parenting two small children in a country where none of us had family or a real support network, the cracks began to show.
It became painfully clear: I was now living with a verbal abuser, a narcissist. Not officially diagnosed, of course—because, unfortunately, people like this rarely go near therapy. But deep down, I know it. I feel it in every molecule of my body.
Looking back, it almost feels inevitable. Of course, I ended up here! Of course, I picked a narcissist, and of course, he picked me! Not consciously, surely, but we were the perfect match for a drama-filled life. It’s a bitter realization, one I’m still coming to terms with as I write this—a truth that stings every time I reflect on it.
I found myself back at square one. All the progress I thought I had made, all the self-awareness and healing, seemed to unravel in the face of this new reality. It was a harsh reminder that the work of understanding and protecting myself was far from over.
At the time, though, I was so sure of myself. I thought I understood people and relationships. I thought I knew myself 85% of the way. Now? I feel like I’m back at 10 or 15%. But even with this realization, I’m determined to keep doing the work within myself.
Here’s the part no one talks about. Every message out there is about leaving. Escape. Don’t look back. Leave the abuser behind. And I understand why—it’s the simplest solution on paper. But what happens when leaving isn’t so simple? What happens when the stakes include your children?
If I left now, my babies would spend one week with me and one week with him. The thought of them being without me, or worse, without my protection, for an entire week? It’s unbearable. I just can’t make that step. Not yet at least.
And that’s why I started this blog.
I know I’m not alone in this struggle. There are women and men everywhere who are trapped—not because they don’t recognize the abuse, but because the alternatives feel impossible. Those around me might love me, but they don’t always understand abuse the way someone with similar experiences would.
This space is for us—for those who can’t just walk away, for those striving to survive, protect their children, heal, and one day, even thrive. It’s a place where I’ll share my experiences and hope to connect with others who truly understand what it’s like.
If this resonates with you, please share your thoughts. Your voice matters, and I want to hear it. Together, let’s navigate this messy, complicated, and often heartbreaking road. You’re not alone.
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