You can love someone and still despise what they stand for—and sometimes, quietly, painfully, that contradiction kills the love altogether. Beliefs are no longer abstract; they are mirrors of character. What once inspired admiration—intellect, confidence, brilliance—can be stripped bare by alignment with cruelty, intimidation, and moral cowardice.
Respect erodes when someone chooses bullies over courage and kindness, power over humanity, and noise over conscience. There comes a moment when you see clearly: they are no longer part of the solution. They are the problem.
The person you grieved was never real—a projection, a mask filled with what you thought you saw. And then the mask fell.
Brainwashing works best on those without a grounded sense of self, who cling to movements because they lack the courage to live authentically. They hide behind identities they “see” as powerful, mistaking volume for virtue and allegiance for integrity, so far entrenched in extremism they cannot see balance, nuance, or “truth” from any angle but what feeds their shallow ego.
Love does die—not suddenly, but slowly, like rot beneath the floorboards. When it is finally buried, what remains is not bitterness, but deep, unshakable gratitude for the divine hand that pulled me free before the collapse became my own.
The most awakening truth came when I realized he became a clone—a male version of a Stepford wife: obedient, empty, and programmable.
“I’ve been to the movies, and I’ve seen how it ends…and the joke’s on them.
Roll the credits.
Love and blessings,
Wendy
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