You enjoy the pain. It makes you feel alive, human. It gives you a sense of purpose; at least you’re doing something, even if it’s just sitting there and taking abuse. What you don’t seem to understand is, the pain is eroding your person. The blows may not leave marks on your face, but the marks on your soul are bared every time you try to smile. The constant putting down and deliberate hurt are taking away the part of you that is living. That’s why you’re floundering, but you keep a tight fist on the pain anyway. Maybe you think it’s a mark of being a good woman, or this twisted kind of “long suffering” is an attestation to your love, or testimony of your virtuous character.
You’re wrong, and you know it. You’re standing by in the name of love, watching your self and esteem be destroyed. Maybe you even join your hands with those dragging you further into the hole.
It would be your fault if you never find your feet or live your dream. You were not made to be sacrificed on the altar of him. And if you do give up who you are completely, or die a physical death, your blood is on your head. Because you know what to do, you’re just so comfortable in misery that you won’t let it go.