Demons

Posted: September 7th, 2026

Reader caution: This piece is part of my healing process through writing. It gives voice to frustration, anger, hurt, and confusion from a specific moment in my life, but it may not fully reflect how I feel now or the full reality of the current situation. It is not meant to attack or define anyone else. It is simply me trying to process what I was feeling, put words to the pain, and work through it honestly.

Healing note: I’m sharing this because writing is one of the ways I’m trying to heal. When I write something like this, I’m not trying to stay angry or hold onto the worst parts of what happened. I’m trying to get the anger, hurt, and confusion out of my head and onto the page so I can understand it, process it, and hopefully let some of it go. My hope is that being honest about the pain helps me move toward growth, forgiveness, peace, and a healthier version of myself.

You told me to heal—

like healing was a command,

like broken was my name,

like pieces were all I had left to claim.

But hear me:

I did not deserve those words.

I was hurt.

I was healing.

I was bruised, not broken.

My walls were high—

high enough to hide

the demons I denied.

Then I met you.

You made safe sound real.

So I dropped my walls.

Down.

Down.

What a mistake.

I thought forever meant forever.

Not “until convenient.”

You took me lower than I had ever been—

lower than anyone before.

At least with her, I knew the storm.

With you, it came dressed like calm.

You let your demons name you, then blamed me for mine.

Call me monster.

Call me abuser.

Call me worse.

Fine.

You let your demons break us.

Strip us.

Leave nothing whole.

We never stood a chance.

You blamed me for my demons, made excuses for yours.

But that is okay.

I will be fine—you shall see.

I have been low before.

My demons?

I know them.

I met them, accepted them, learned to work with them.

You dismiss yours.

You avoid yours.

So I will heal, grow, become secure—while you stay fearful and hide.

I will be better.

I will not walk that path—

manipulation, deceit, and lies.

One day, you will know what you ruined.

Don’t think about me. Don’t reach out. Don’t hit me up.

I will forgive you—

forgiven, not forgotten—

lessons in hand: learned, better, healed.

I will battle my demons, as I have before.

I hope you face yours someday, before they wreck your life more.

Still Learning to Breathe

Posted: September 3rd, 2026

Content Warning: This piece speaks openly about emotional pain, trauma responses, conflict, accusations, mental health struggles, and the lasting impact of hurtful words. Please read with care and take space if you need it.

Author’s Note: This piece comes from a place I could no longer keep locked away. Some of what I write here is painful, detailed, and difficult to sit with, but my purpose is not to hurt anyone, accuse anyone, or pull others back into memories they are trying to survive. My purpose is to be honest about what this pain felt like while I was carrying it. I may not feel every word with the same intensity now, but those feelings existed, and pretending they did not only kept them buried inside me. Writing this is not an act of revenge. It is an act of release, reflection, and healing.

Summary: This poem explores the aftermath of feeling unheard, misunderstood, and painfully labeled during a deeply emotional conflict. It moves through silence, trauma, anger, accountability, regret, and the need to be seen—not as a monster, but as a person carrying pain. At its heart, this piece is about releasing what could no longer stay hidden and trying to make sense of hurt through honesty.

You thought I went quiet
because I stopped caring,

but I went quiet
because every time I cared enough to speak,
you gave me another reason to believe
speaking up wouldn’t change anything.

Hope kept sending me back,
because I thought honesty
would get through.

I told you what hurt,
and I got scolded
for having it.

“Do you think there is hope left, Jarod!?
Well, do you!?
Would I be doing this
if there was hope left!?”

I tried a second time
a few weeks later.

This time you said
you were FINALLY standing up for yourself,
as if I’m some kind of monster.

That word finally
really struck home.

You FINALLY stood up
because I must have been abusive,
I must have been violent,
I must have been cruel,
and hateful,
and mean.

I know that’s not true.

I did everything for you.
I have been nothing but kind,
patient,
loving,
and true.

But you used words
like abuser and stalker,
and you knew
how to destroy me.

You got in my head
when you already knew
my inner voice
was the enemy.

Then you put the nail
in the coffin
and finished me.

You said you couldn’t get past
the fact that I yelled at you,
that you would be forever waiting
for me to do it again,

for me to yell again,
for me to snap again.

Once again
you labeled me as a monster.

Once again
you painted me as the abuser.

Once again
you removed the fact
that I was struggling mentally.

You didn’t account
for the triggers simultaneously.

You didn’t talk about your lie,
or how you manipulated me,
how you blamed me
for being dishonest
when you kept secrets from me.

None of that mattered
as long as I was the monster
in your story,

and you could walk away
peacefully.

“What!?
Do you think I’m going to hit you!?”

That’s what you said to me
as you saw me frozen,
standing in the closet
right before you.

Unable to move.
Unable to speak.
Hardly able to breathe.

But you were standing there,
getting angry at me.

How dare I be traumatized.
How dare I show pain.

As long as it isn’t you
that’s hurting,
then it isn’t the same.

It doesn’t matter
if it’s me,
so long as I suffer
in peace.

You don’t want to see it.
You don’t want to hear it.
Don’t draw attention,
at least.

Because if I do,
that’s no good,
then the narrative changes:

“Well, you hurt me too.
This is how I’ve been feeling
for months.
Even though I didn’t tell you,
you’re just expected to know.”

All these words.
All these times.
All this pain.
All this strife.

I know it came
from a place of hurt.

I know you were in pain.
I know you were struggling
for months,
and I know you were questioning everything
with what happened
when I yelled.

I am sorry for the hurt.
I’m sorry for the pain.

I understand you felt unheard,
disrespected,
and that you had no space.

I know the pressure of parenting
and being a wife,
and the work schedules,
and the funeral,
and the pressure
of being a first responder
in a county that didn’t care.

Then came Aftershock,
and the survey,
and everything else.

The pressure built
and built,
and I didn’t help,
and I understand
that everything went crazy.

I am sorry
that I didn’t understand.

If I could go back
and communicate more clearly,
I would.

I would figure it all out.
I would let you know
that I love you.

I would hold you.
I would ask you.
I would listen.
I would help.

I am reflecting on everything,
and I hope you do the same.

I need you
to do the same.

I need you to see
that you weren’t the only one hurting.

I need you to see
the pain your words caused,
the pain your actions caused,
the pain that I am in.

I need you to see
that your words hurt worse
because they came from you.

Call It My Life

Posted: September 3rd, 2026

Reader caution: This piece is part of my healing process through writing. It gives voice to frustration, anger, hurt, and confusion from a specific moment in my life, but it may not fully reflect how I feel now or the full reality of the current situation. It is not meant to attack or define anyone else. It is simply me trying to process what I was feeling, put words to the pain, and work through it honestly.

Healing note: I’m sharing this because writing is one of the ways I’m trying to heal. When I write something like this, I’m not trying to stay angry or hold onto the worst parts of what happened. I’m trying to get the anger, hurt, and confusion out of my head and onto the page so I can understand it, process it, and hopefully let some of it go. My hope is that being honest about the pain helps me move toward growth, forgiveness, peace, and a healthier version of myself.

You call it a mess,

I call it my life.

You say two years of damage

left you drowning in strife,

but I spent fifteen years, fighting fear, just trying to survive.

I didn’t choose the hurt,

I didn’t choose the pain,

wasn’t a cheater, wasn’t a liar, wasn’t an abuser by name.

Those labels came from the person

who cut me the most,

handed me her damage, her baggage, then became what she imposed.

So I made myself small,

learned to swallow the fight, bottle the bite,

keep her calm, keep her quiet, keep surviving the night,

keep the peace through the night.

Don’t argue, don’t talk back,

just agree and let it go.

hide the hurt from the kids,

never let the pain show.

You say you’ve spent two years

picking up my pieces,

But did you ever ask what was happening, cracking beneath?

What it felt like every time you pulled away from me?

How the fuck was I supposed to know I was too much to keep?

No talks, no truth, no remorse—just breaking and aching underneath.

When I finally broke, you saw the explosion.

But you never looked at the cause for my erosion.

The lie. Your lie. That selfish decision.

You saw my reaction, my panic, my suspicion.

You never looked behind it, never checked on yourself.

You only saw a monster – then made me question myself.

And suddenly I’m accused of abusing all over again.

Just for reacting to trauma I was trapped in again.

Wasn’t a cheater, wasn’t a liar, wasn’t an abuser by name.

I was a man who got hurt, got hit, got triggered, and finally broke.

I’m not saying that makes it right – I know that, no joke.

I’m saying there’s a difference, and you refused to see:
you blamed the explosion while ignoring what ignited me.

I know the words I said cut deep, cut clean, and that pain was real.

I own what I did, I won’t hide from my part,

I’ll face what I broke, even bleeding from the heart.

But accountability can’t mean carrying all the blame.

I can own my reaction without denying the damage or pain.

I’ll answer for the fire when I finally lost control,

but you need to see what was burning in my soul.

You knew I was breaking; you saw me unraveling.

Then when I finally broke, you walked away from everything.

That’s the part I’ll carry the longest,

I didn’t need you to fix me; I needed you to see me, hear me, believe me.

Needed someone to see the pieces and know what I was running from.

The person I thought would stay became the person who abandoned me.

So you call them pieces,

I call it my life.
Left alone with the pieces,
still bleeding, still alive.