Why I Write (And No, It’s Not About You)

Let me be very clear for the inevitable day when she finds this blog—because let’s be honest, she will.
She’s stalked me for thirteen years, obsessing over a life that doesn’t belong to her.
So, for the record:

I don’t write because she lives rent-free in my head.
I write because this is how I exorcise the weight I’ve carried around for over a decade.
It’s not about her. It’s about me.
My healing.
My story.
My truth.

He lied.
Big lies.
Twisted, self-serving lies meant to paint me as the villain, so he could justify chasing the easiest piece of ass he could find. And isn’t that how it always goes?
The man says he’s “unhappy,” that his wife is “mean” or “distant”—as if those lies justify betrayal.
And the other woman? She’s not some irresistible goddess.
She’s Shrek’s wife with adult acne, a saggy moral compass, and the confidence of a 3am dive bar reject.
Let’s call it what it is:
She was the last pick on a nostalgia tour disguised as Facebook messaging.

They weren’t reconnecting.
They were rewriting the past.
Dressing up old crushes as soulmates.
Catching feelings where there should’ve been boundaries.

And while they were off playing pretend, I was living the very real consequences.
He turned our marriage into a performance—broadcasting lies on Facebook, blocking me from seeing them.
But I’m no fool.
I gained access.
I saw it all.
Every message.
Every disgusting photo.
Every fantasy.
It was all there in the digital wreckage—and once I saw the truth, I shared it. With everyone.

Because no, bitch, I don’t keep secrets for cheaters.
You fucked my husband.
In my house.
You helped him destroy our family while he was in a mental health crisis—and instead of helping him, you enabled the worst version of him.
That’s not love.
That’s manipulation.

You want to know why I write?
It’s not revenge.
It’s release.
It’s reclamation.

You tried to bury me in silence, shame, and secrets.
But I found my way out—pen first.

You called it an affair.
I call it a war against my peace, and I’m still here.
Still healing.
Still standing.
Still writing.

Because no one ever gave me closure.
So I’m building it myself—brick by brick, blog post by blog post.

And let’s not forget: after the affair exploded, he came back.
Begged for forgiveness.
Got into therapy.
Tore down the fantasy and saw you for what you really were.

He was ashamed.
Of what he did.
Of who he did it with.

And you?
You blamed me for ruining your reputation?
Bitch, please.
You torched your own reputation the moment you opened your legs to someone else’s husband.
Don’t get mad because I refused to help you hide it.

I write because I can.
Because this space is mine.
Because I waited over a decade to speak my truth out loud—and I’m not wasting a single word.

You don’t get the last word.
You don’t get to rewrite the story.
You don’t get to play innocent while the wreckage you caused still smolders.

You fucked with the wrong woman.

Now sit back and choke on the truth.