In the cocoon of toxicity, I once saw myself solely as a victim entangled in a deceptive web. But one pivotal moment shattered this illusion.

It was the epiphany that I too was an active participant in the dance of dysfunction. This acknowledgment was the first spark of my empowerment—a realization that I held the pen to my own story.

The Awakening | The Broken Dam

In the eerie aftermath of a brutal confrontation that echoed through the walls of our home, I found myself ensnared in the aftermath of a war that had been waged for 18 years.

The clock's mournful chime at 3 a.m. marked the residue of a battle that, though fleeting in its physical manifestation, had roots deep in the soil of our long existence as a couple.

As I lay in the aftermath of our bitter verbal skirmish, the venomous words still reverberating in my mind, I sensed an anger that refused to be quelled.

It was a living, breathing entity of rage, evolving and growing rapidly under the shroud of darkness, as if the night itself had birthed a relentless force.

The weight of his disrespect pressed upon me, stealing not only my peace but also my dignity that lay scattered like shards of glass on the floor.

To survive in this war that became a constant in our relationship, I had crafted my own ugly set of tools, becoming a master at personal attacks.

Since there was no real compromise coming from him, all rational discourse had long abandoned our home, replaced by a language of verbal warfare that left no room for understanding or respectful disagreements.

But the funny thing about having a none-ending war in any relationship is, you may win small battles today or tomorrow. But in the end, there are no winners. There are only losers.

Restless and wounded, I made my way to the comforting glow of the kitchen light, where a notepad lay—an unwitting witness to late-night musings and dream deciphering.

A decision crystallized within me. I would pen down the first twenty things that I blamed him for, an exorcism of the pent-up rage that was now boiling over and consuming me.

As the ink flowed, my grievances spilled onto the pages like an unbridled river. The list, which I later christened "My Mad Woman’s List," became a catalogue of hurts, wounds, pain, disrespect, neglect, lies and betrayals compounded by the silent burdens of shame I had carried through the years.

Living with a man who took no responsibilty for any wrong doing, who deemed no time right for important conversations, left me no outlet.

No room for resolution, on issues big or small. And so, I became a silent jujitsu master at keeping scores. Adept at preserving every detail of my hurts and disappointments and all the incidents where he almost broke me.

The pen danced, as I continued writing, revealing not just the events of that fateful day but a chronicle of every instance where I felt belittled, criticized, controlled, used, and betrayed.

In the end, I was looking down at my top 100 list of evidence of non-commital, that I meticulously documented in our 18 years of battle, in a lost war that defined our relationship.