Nobody warns you about the slow-motion suicide of the soul. That constant, low-grade hum of anxiety that follows you around like a shadow. It’s the first thing you feel when you wake up and the last thing you wrestle with before you fall into a fitful sleep. Your phone buzzes, and your stomach plummets. You check their social media, and your heart does a painful little flip-flop. You spend hours, days, weeks of your precious life replaying conversations, dissecting their tone, trying to decipher the hidden meaning behind their words, their silences, their sighs. You walk on eggshells, constantly monitoring their moods, anticipating their needs, shrinking yourself down to make more room for their chaos. You apologize before you even ask for something. You make excuses for their cruelty, their neglect, their outright disrespect. “They’re just stressed,” you tell yourself. “They’ve been through so much.” You have become a psychic sponge, soaking up their unprocessed rage, their bottomless grief, their toxic shame. And you are drowning in it. Let’s call this what it is. This isn’t love. This isn’t loyalty. This is a trauma bond. This is a slow-motion suicide of the soul. And the most painful part? You’re a