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This isn’t a lifestyle blog. It’s a survival journal.
I’m Charly — single mom, psychology major, twice-divorced, trauma-processing, ADHD-powered chaos coordinator.
Here, I write the real shit:
💔 Relationship messes
🧠 Mental health madness
🧺 Life’s dirty laundry
If you’re just as dysfunctional but refuse to go down quietly — you’re in the right place.

Fresh Off The Chaos Express: Newest Dirty Laundry

“I Lost Myself Loving a Narcissist – But That’s How I Found Me”

If I had a dollar for every night I cried myself to sleep, I’d have a damn house. Maybe even a fully loaded SUV with heated seats to cry in while parked in the Walmart lot.

But real talk—the last relationship I was in? I cried more in that one than I have in my entire life combined.

Sometimes I blamed it on hormones. Or that cursed word we all side-eye at a certain age: menopause. Which, let’s be honest, was obviously named because men are the reason half of us go off the deep end. And just like their emotions, those hot-and-cold flashes? Unpredictable and hard to survive.

Science says men don’t form emotional attachments the way we do. And if they do show feelings? One of two things is probably true:

They’re a massive momma’s boy.
They’re into dudes.
(No hate. Just saying.)

But seriously—how can someone say the most soul-shattering things and then act like they just told you the weather forecast?

That was the hardest part of my last relationship. The emotional beatdown was so constant that for three straight months, I cried daily. No exaggeration. Morning, night, mid-coffee breakdowns—it didn’t stop. It got so bad I started sleeping in the other room. And guess what? That only made things worse.

Because suddenly, I was “being sneaky.”
I was “probably talking to someone else.”
And like every other toxic-ass relationship, it was always me who had to prove I was innocent.

“Here’s my phone,” I’d say. “Check it.”

Same passcode for three years. Gave it to him more than once. Hell, he had access to our home security cameras. Still made up stories in his head and never looked for himself. Because truth wasn’t what he wanted—control was.

I’ve got two working assumptions for what was really going on.

He was the one sneaking around.
A couple slip-ups exposed him. Like swinging by a female “friend’s” house without telling me. There’s more to that story, but that’ll be its own post someday. You can imagine the spiral my brain went through. What else did he lie about? What else was I too blind to see?
He was a narcissist.
Ding ding ding.

And if you’ve been following me for a minute, you know I’m a psych major. I live for behavioral patterns, body language, emotional cues—all that juicy diagnostic gold. And baby… I started collecting data. I watched the way he reacted, moved, slept, spoke, dodged, deflected.
One by one, I checked boxes off the DSM-V.
He matched 6 of the 9 diagnostic criteria. Only 5 are required for diagnosis.

And just so you know—narcissists don’t admit shit. Even when you show them the facts. Even when you’re calm and logical. I got him to admit to maybe having bipolar disorder or a personality disorder, but narcissism? Nope. Still in full denial.

And me being real? Me pointing out the behaviors and holding up the mirror?
That just made me the enemy.

Because narcissists don’t hate liars. They hate the ones who tell the truth.

Yet I stayed.
For a year and a half longer than I should have.

Why?
Because I knew he had trauma. I told myself he just didn’t know how to process it. That if I loved him hard enough, soft enough, real enough… maybe he’d finally feel safe enough to heal.
His method of dealing with pain was to bury it. Pretend it didn’t happen. Move on like nothing was wrong. Meanwhile, I kept pouring myself into fixing him—while I was falling apart.

And this is the hardest truth of all:

I gave him everything.

I gave him more love, more loyalty, and more grace than I ever gave in my marriages. In any relationship, really. For some damn reason, I truly believed he was my forever. I saw myself growing old with him. I pictured porch swings and inside jokes.

But instead of love, I got confusion.
Instead of safety, I got paranoia.
Instead of answers, I got silence.

And I cried.
Not because of the insults, the accusations, or the cold shoulder.
I cried because I couldn’t figure out why.

Why did I deserve this?
What did I do wrong?

I followed every blueprint we’re told to follow: be loyal, be supportive, be honest, be “ride or die.” I was all of it. But it still wasn’t enough.

And then I realized…
It wasn’t me.

It never was.

And while I may never get closure from him, I did find something even better—
I found me.

This relationship? This twisted, painful, soul-sucking mess?
It taught me everything I never knew I needed to learn.

It made me stronger.
It made me wiser.
It humbled me.
It cracked me open, stripped me down—and in the rubble, I found her.
The version of me who had been buried under people-pleasing and pain for nearly 40 years.

So maybe that was the purpose.

Real Takeaway:

If you’ve been through something like this, or you’re still in it, just know—you’re not crazy, you’re not too much, and you’re definitely not alone. You don’t have to stay broken just because someone else refused to heal.

FRESH OFF THE CHAOS PRESS

I Lost Myself Loving a Narcissist – But That’s How I Found Me

If I had a dollar for every night I cried myself to sleep, I’d have a damn house. Maybe even a fully loaded SUV with heated seats to cry in while parked in the Walmart parking lot.

But real talk—the last relationship I was in? I cried more, in this one, than I have in my entire life combined.

Sometimes I blamed it on hormones. Or that cursed word we all side-eye at a certain age: menopause. Which, let’s be honest, was obviously named because men are the reason half of us go off the deep end. Am I wrong? And just like their emotions, those hot-and-cold flashes? Unpredictable and hard to survive.

Science says men don’t form emotional attachments the way we do. And if they do show feelings? One of two things is probably true:

They’re a massive momma’s boy.
They’re into dudes.
(No hate. Just saying.)

But seriously—how can someone say the most soul-shattering things and then act like they just told you the weather forecast?

That has been the hardest part of this last relationship. The emotional beatdown was so constant that for three straight months, I cried daily. No exaggeration. Morning, night, mid-coffee breakdowns—it didn’t stop. It got so bad I started sleeping in the other room. And guess what? That only made things worse.

Because suddenly, I was “being sneaky.”
Or I was “talking to someone else.”
And like every other toxic-ass relationship, it was always me who had to prove I was innocent.

“Here’s my phone,” I’d say. “Check it.”
Same passcode for three years. Gave it to him more than once.
Hell, he had access to our home security cameras.
Still made up stories in his head and never looked for himself. Because truth wasn’t what he wanted—control was.

I’ve got two working assumptions for what was really going on.

1. He was the one sneaking around.

A couple slip-ups exposed him. Like swinging by a female “friend’s” house without telling me. There’s more to that story, but that’ll be its own post someday. You can imagine the spiral my brain went through. What else did he lie about? What else was I too blind to see?

2. He was a narcissist.

Ding ding ding.

If you’ve been following me for a minute, you know I’m in pursue of a Psychology Major. I live for behavioral patterns, body language, emotional cues—all that juicy diagnostic gold. And baby… I started collecting data. I watched the way he reacted, moved, slept, spoke, dodged, deflected.
One by one, I checked boxes off the DSM-V.
He matched 6 of the 9 diagnostic criteria. Only 5 are required for diagnosis.

And me being real? Me pointing out the behaviors and holding up the mirror?
That just made me the enemy.

Because narcissists don’t hate liars.
They hate the ones who tell the truth.

Yet I’m still here. Why? I ask myself that daily.

Only reason I keep coming up with? Why?
Because I knew he had trauma. I told myself he just didn’t know how to process it. That if I loved him hard enough, soft enough, real enough… maybe he’d finally feel safe enough to heal.
His method of dealing with pain was to bury it. Pretend it didn’t happen. Move on like nothing was wrong. Meanwhile, I kept pouring myself into fixing him—while I’m falling apart.

And this is the hardest truth of all:

I gave him everything.

I gave him more love, more loyalty, and more grace than I ever gave in my marriages. In any relationship, really. For some reason, deep down in my heart, I truly believe he was my forever. I saw myself growing old with him. I pictured porch swings, inside jokes and our fishing adventures.

But instead of love, I got confusion.
Instead of safety, I got paranoia.
Instead of answers, I got silence.

And I cried.
Not because of the insults, the accusations, or the cold shoulder.
I cried because I couldn’t figure out why.

Why did I deserve this?
What did I do wrong?

I followed every blueprint we’re told to follow: be loyal, be supportive, be honest, be “ride or die.” I was all of it. But it still wasn’t enough.

And then I realized…
It wasn’t me.
It never was.

And while I may never get the truth or my answers from him, I did find something even better—
I’ve started to find me.

This relationship? This twisted, painful, soul-sucking mess?
It has taught me to be alone, because that’s one thing in my life I have never been good at. Now, I prefer it.

It made me stronger.
It made me wiser.
It humbled me and made me patient.
It cracked me open, stripped me down—and in the rubble, I found her.
The version of me who had been buried under people-pleasing and pain for nearly 40 years.

So maybe that was the purpose.

💬 Real Takeaway:

If you’ve been through something like this—or you’re still in it—just know:
You’re not crazy.
You’re not too much.
And you’re definitely not alone.

You don’t have to stay broken just because someone else refuses to heal.