So Now I Hate Parking Lots

Warning: Got you on clickbait, perhaps. This isn’t a discussion about the logistics of parking lots. It delves into a deeply personal and negative human experience. Understanding both sides of this story requires emotional intelligence—especially for those who know me personally.

There are little moments—seemingly unimportant ones—that slowly chip away at your sense of trust and safety. And when you look back, they don’t look like big, dramatic events. But the emotional damage? It adds up.

Recently, I said yes to working out with my partner. I figured we’d go to the gym. But he immediately said he didn’t want to go there. Minutes later, while he was eating, I said I’d still go on my own—and he encouraged me to. So I went.

But right before I left, he said, “Don’t go.” I still went.

I got in a good 20-minute workout. But when I walked outside, I saw his car parked just a few feet away. I pulled up and asked him what he was doing there. I asked if he wanted to work out, or if something was wrong. It all seemed so strange—and yet that moment turned into a whole thing. It escalated even more later when I stopped by the grocery store and he called me repeatedly asking why I wasn’t home yet.

He later said he parked there “just in case some stranger did something to you.” I totally get the intent and yes, that sounds sweet on the surface—but we’ve been to this gym before. Nothing has ever happened. It didn’t feel protective. It felt... watchful. It felt like distrust disguised as care.

I still felt disrespected.

It wasn’t just about that night. It was about the pattern.

A Few Weeks Earlier

I signed us up for line dancing classes together. It was my second time going into this class with the same instructor. I was excited. We were learning new moves. It felt fun and collaborative.

Afterward, we went to a ramen restaurant. In line, a couple came in and asked the host about the wait. The host replied with a little joke, and I laughed—it was funny. But somehow, that moment spiraled. My boyfriend thought I was laughing at the guy…. and whatever other imagination that wasn’t really in my mind.

He stewed the entire dinner. Angry. Quiet. Cold. At one point, he snapped: “Shut the fuck up. Hurry up and finish eating.”

I felt humiliated. I paid the bill and walked out to the parking lot alone. The whole meal, I’d tried asking what was wrong. I wanted to understand. But I also wanted to be treated with basic decency—something I didn’t get.

And then, in the parking lot, it got worse.

Instead of coming to me to talk, he came to get his cigarettes from my car. I was still angry. I said I wouldn’t move. He reacted physically—attempted to strangle me to pull me out of the car. I panicked. I tried to slap him, but it turned into an accidental punch. It was hideous, the both of us - two people who supposedly loved each other, one trying to control the other, and the other? Not to be controlled. I felt bad for the both of us, but my brain said to throw that ick away. So I threw his cigarettes out and drove home. I felt completely unsafe.

Before he made it back, I had most of his things packed.

I even unfollowed his mom and most of the people I’d met through him. Not because they did anything wrong, not because they have a direct link into the whole situation—but because I couldn’t justify clinging to the connections if the foundation of the relationship was broken.

People are raised with values. If those values are solid, they’re meant to carry forward—into every relationship, not just the ones that are easy to respect. If you wouldn’t treat your parents or friends this way, then why treat your partner any differently? That’s the question.

As an empathetic person, I often see the other side of people—their pain, their patterns—and end up carrying the weight of it. But maybe this is my reflection point: to step back and really define what I want from this life, even if it means moving beyond certain people and releasing the memories and gifts I once held dear.

Why Is It Okay to Hurt Me?

This part breaks me. These are the questions I’ve asked myself in the midst of the chaos—trying to make sense of it all. Maybe they’ll help you, too, whether you’re reflecting on your own relationship or navigating someone else’s behavior or yours.

How can someone who calls their parents with such love and respect turn around and treat me like I’m disposable?

How is it that when I voice concerns, I get silenced—because “it would break their heart to know the truth”?

Do they even know how abusive this whole experience was for me?

Do they realize that if this person doesn’t change, they’ll keep repeating this same toxic cycle?

Do they know that I don’t take shit from anyone—that I’m cutthroat about keeping my space positive because I’ve lived through enough chaos to know what I deserve?

Let’s Call It What It Is

This person I’m with? Call it co-dependency. Call it someone who needs to learn what respect really looks like—not just for me, but for them too.

I believe no one’s perfect. We all have moments where we act out, where we stumble. But the issue is time. Too many people don't stop to look in the mirror—really look. We don’t sit with our own thoughts long enough to see what’s beneath them. We don’t reflect enough. And when we don't, it spills out onto the people closest to us.

I’ve watched people I love spiral into addictions because they couldn’t face their own reality. So when someone says telling the truth will “hurt” someone... I wonder: Who decided truth is a weapon?

How dare anyone dismiss someone else’s mind like that?

We all deserve space to speak, to feel, to confront who we are. That includes me. That includes you.

And if you’re someone who knows me—this is my way of saying: I’m okay. I want time to breathe. To live in the space. To not be forced into the next thing that is wrong, whether it's personal or professional.

Life is difficult. But one tip I live by? Build resilience. Because when life turns into death, it’s just us—alone—with everything we did or didn’t do. Everything we carried or left behind.

And here’s the hardest part to admit through such a hard experience: I happen to love this person. For their overall character. For their drive to be better. For their persistence. For the light I still see in them. Fortunately, after all this recent chaos, we apologized to each other, and it lifted a huge burden.

When people project their insecurities onto you—whether it’s about money, uncertainty, or just the pressure of making ends meet—clarity is needed. For me, I’d be more than happy to give space, or ask clarifying questions when the time is right. I want to help. But frankly, I can’t do that if I’m told to shut up because I’ve said too much—or accused of not caring when I say too little.

Still On My Terms

There comes a point though, and as a reader you may be wondering, wow, you just said a lot. Does she know she can just…? When will she…? Look, I’ve learned through trade, through late-night spiral conversations, and through various funny or serious social media reels, that it’s incredibly shocking just how many of us live the same pitiful story. We linger onto hope—not to change people, but to hope that things get better.

It sounds simple, right? But these are the moments that test us. When someone reveals their self-worth through their actions—believe them, and pivot accordingly. Some people unravel and show you they feel entitled to the world.

I’ve learned to earn what I have. I try to stay grounded in gratitude. And when things fall apart, I do my best to understand. I’ve fallen short, too—said things I didn’t mean, worn down by emotional exhaustion. But that’s still no excuse to act like an asshole. There’s always a higher standard to live by.

You can either be part of someone’s growth—because you’re a good person—or you can realize your limits and let go. And you hope that person takes on the learnings and be better in their current and future relationships with people. There's a great book on this: Letting Go: The Pathway of Surrender by David R. Hawkins. I ought to read it again, to really reset myself on these principles. You either place your bets on a better future with them, or honestly, on one without them.

The longer I sit with it, the more I think about what Gabor Maté said:

“The attempt to escape from pain, is what creates more pain.”

So much of my life has been shaped by that very instinct—trying to avoid hurt, minimize conflict, soften blows. But the more I avoided, the more it all built up underneath.

I didn’t choose the cards I was handed, but I choose how I hold them now. Not with avoidance, but with grace. With strength. With boundaries.

If you're going through something similar—or you’ve already reached your own breaking point—I’d love to hear your story. Email me.

Let’s not suffer in silence if we don’t have to.