“You don’t respond well to compassion,” she said.
And before I could think, before I could edit, I answered:
“Because compassion hides abuse.”
I didn’t even know I believed that.
But the second the words left my mouth, they hit the air like they’d been waiting years to be spoken.
It didn’t feel like clarity.
It didn’t feel like peace.
It felt dehumanizing.
Like I had just stumbled across the grave of the little girl inside me —
the one who trusted warmth,
who followed smiles,
who believed that “I care about you” meant she was safe.
Only to learn that those words were chains.
That every soft touch came with bruises and blood.
That love — or what she was told was love —
was the bait that led her into cages she still hasn’t broken out of.
I felt her again — not as a memory,
but as a presence still living somewhere inside me.
The little girl who smiled to survive.
Who said yes when everything in her screamed no.
Who learned to trade pieces of herself for permission to belong.
Who didn’t run — because there was nowhere to run.
Who stayed.
Because staying hurt less than being alone with the truth.
She’s not gone.
She’s still in here.
And maybe she’s what cracked me open —
realizing I never really left her behind.
Just buried her beneath layers of compliance, performance, and apology out of fear.
That’s why I flinch at kindness —
because it’s what betrayed me the most.
Because I’ve been fooled by warmth before.
I’ve been comforted by the very hands that harmed me.
I’ve had “I love you” used like a leash —
not to lead me somewhere safe,
but to tether me to someone else’s control.
The lie that made obedience feel like devotion.
I’ve been told “I’m here for you” —
but what they meant was “I’m here to own you.”
It was never presence. It was possession dressed up as care.
And when abuse wears the costume of compassion,
it doesn’t just hurt —
it betrays you on a cellular level.
So no, I don’t trust kindness automatically.
I question it
I dissect it.
I scan for strings.
I brace for the massive cost.
And I prepare for the worst.
Because in my world,
compassion was the prelude to control.
All the “I care about you”s with hidden expectations.
All the smiles that made me bleed.
All the “let’s talk”s that were setups for shame and silence.
I don’t flinch at cruelty.
I prepare for it.
I flinch at softness —
because it wore a mask I didn’t see until it was too late.
And what wrecks me even more…
is that I still want it.
I still want love.
Still want connection.
Still want someone who chooses me — without needing to manage me, fix me, or feed off me.
I want to rest without suspicion.
To be held without waiting for the knife.
To be safe in softness.
But I’m not there yet.
Because this sentence — “compassion hides abuse” —
is a door I just found.
And I haven’t stepped through it yet.
I’m still standing in the threshold,
processing a truth I didn’t know existed
until it ripped itself out of my mouth and named itself.
This is brand new.
It’s raw.
And it’s real.
So if I seem cold, distant, confused, and hard to love…
Please know:
It’s not because I don’t want love.
It’s because I’ve seen what love becomes
when it wears the wrong face and the doors close.
Now I understand.
For me,
compassion didn’t mean safety.
It meant silence.
It meant submission.
It meant don’t fight. Don’t question. Don’t scream.
And love?
Love was just the decorated version of control.
If my words spoke to your heart, you can help support our journey:
Letters From the Edge 