Am I a good person?

Fuck, I feel like a piece of crap any time I’m around people.

As the kids like to say on TikTok: story time.

Isolation Isn’t Always Accidental

In the last years of my marriage, I was profoundly isolated—mostly because of his actions and how he treated me. My friendships were tightly curated, and many people were outright forbidden. Contact was monitored. Access was controlled.

I know there were people who cared about me. I believe that. But my ability to maintain those relationships was intentionally limited.

In all of this, I had one consistent friend.

And even that friendship was constantly under siege.

This friend was liked… then hated… then liked again… then hated again. Even during the “liked” phases, suspicion never went away. It was exhausting. I’ll be honest: several of my friendships existed almost in secret—including this one.

When I say secret, I mean secret.

His temper was volatile and violent. If he discovered a friendship he didn’t approve of, it could turn physical. I was explicitly told who I could and could not see. And when control wasn’t enough, he resorted to stories—wild, fabricated narratives about me that had no basis in reality.

Those lies worked.

When Lies Do the Dirty Work

He convinced his family—and many people I once called friends—that I was a horrible person. That I had all sorts of terrible things going on. None of it was true, but sorting truth from fiction became too much for many people.

So they fell away.

Not because they didn’t care, but because maintaining a relationship with me meant navigating chaos, abuse, and constant misinformation. That loss was devastating. It still is.

But one friend stayed.

The One Who Stayed

This friend endured abuse just to be around me. His dedication to me was far more than I ever deserved. He gave me courage—real courage—to finally break away from my marriage.

I know that some people in his life have had to listen to my attempts to heal trauma, and that I’ve sometimes said things about him that don’t paint him in a perfect light. For that, I’m sorry. Trauma processing isn’t tidy, and it’s not always flattering to anyone involved.

But when the worst day of my life happened, he was there—almost immediately.

He stayed with me for nearly 48 hours without sleep, just to make sure I was okay. He saw through the bullshit when almost no one else could. He believed I was worth standing beside.

There are people farther away who would’ve been there in a heartbeat, and I know that. But he was here. And he didn’t leave.

Mutual Survival, Not Dependency

He was dragged through the mud just like I was. The same lies. The same smear campaign.

I risked a lot for him because he was right there. I’ve helped him—financially, practically, in getting his life back on track. And he’s helped me do the same.

Since my strokes, he’s been a constant: rides to appointments, regular check-ins, helping with heavy tasks around the house. Not because I’m helpless—but because he cares.

That matters.

I’ve made some very serious decisions about what happens after I’m gone, and I fully intend to leave a significant portion of my life to him. People don’t understand that.

Quite frankly, I don’t give a damn.

I have had very few friends of his caliber.

The Messy Parts Still Count

I know that after he was gone, I wasn’t exactly a prize. My substance use was real, and it was a bad decision. It wasn’t the right solution—but it was a solution. An escape. Four to six hours where reality disappeared.

Many people who use substances are self-medicating. That doesn’t make it healthy—but it makes it human.

I own that.

Still Here, Still Standing

At this point, I’ve accepted that most people don’t know what to do with me anymore—so they stay away. That’s fine.

It still hurts.

Some people probably believe the version of me he created. Others are disgusted and don’t want to be around me. Either way, I’m still here. I’m not going anywhere. And every day, I do everything within my power to make my life as good as it can be.

No matter how badly I fuck up, I know this:

My dogs.

My mom.

My true friends.

My family.

They stand by me. They don’t judge.

And that tells me something important.

Maybe I am a good person—just one who survived a lot.