After four years together: He trampled and humiliated me because of my weight!
My name is Emily Hartley, and I live in a little town called Stratford-upon-Avon, where the canals wind quietly between old brick buildings in Warwickshire. I never imagined my life would turn into this nightmare. We broke up. Four years and three months—I shared everything with him: laughter, tears, hopes. And now I’m alone, my heart shattered to pieces. You might say, “So what? People break up all the time.” Yeah, that’s true, but I’ll never forgive his betrayal—it was like a knife in the back, slipped in with a smile.
For the longest time, we were nearly perfect. Sure, we argued sometimes, but never full-blown rows. We were thick as thieves—until life sucker-punched me. After a heavy personal loss, I started putting on weight. Not that I was ever a runway model before, but I had a decent figure, nice enough. Then the pounds crept on, and my boyfriend—now ex, Daniel—turned into my tormentor. He mocked me, belittled me, like I was nothing to him anymore.
He didn’t even bother hiding his cruelty in public. I remember one night out with his mates, after a few pints, he made loud jokes about my “rolls,” poking at my sides while everyone laughed. His drunken excuses didn’t dull the pain—I felt crushed, pathetic. Those last months, I cried more than I saw the sunshine. And he *knew*—he knew exactly what hell I was going through, knew every detail of my struggle. Still, he kept stamping on me like I was dirt under his shoe. Every jab made my problems heavier, more suffocating.
One morning, I snapped. My chest was tight with anger, tears choking me, and I just yelled, “Get out!” He didn’t even flinch—like he’d been waiting for it. Packed his stuff in silence, slammed the door, and vanished. After four years, he left me there—doubled over in agony, drowning in my own mess. Now I’m stuck with this hollow feeling and questions with no answers. Was there someone else? No obvious signs, no secret calls or sneaky meet-ups. But what if he’d already moved on—to someone slim, pretty, not like me, not worn down and broken?
I’m not asking for advice or pity. Just spilling this pain that burns inside me like hot iron. Daniel didn’t just wreck my love—he destroyed my faith in myself. Every sharp glance, every comment about my weight cut deep, left scars. I won’t forget how he laughed at me in front of strangers, how he looked at me with disgust, like I wasn’t even a woman to him anymore. He knew I was fighting my own demons, but instead of holding me up, he ground me further into the dirt. And then he walked away without a second glance, leaving me in this hell.
Sometimes I picture him with someone else—some carefree girl, all tiny waist and bright laughter. Maybe that’s what he always wanted while I was gaining weight from stress and tears. That thought gnaws at me at night, but I don’t want the truth—it’d only crush me worse. Four years, I gave him everything—love, warmth, my whole self—and he wiped his feet on me and walked into a new life. Now I’m here, with the extra weight, the pile of hurt, and this sinking feeling I don’t deserve even a scrap of happiness.
But I’ll get through it. I *have* to. Through the tears, through the ache, I’ll find the strength to stand again. Every day I look in the mirror and hate what I see—not because of the weight, but because I let him break me like this. He’s gone, but I’m still here, fighting—against myself, the past, his voice in my head that still whispers, *”You’re worthless.”* All I pray for now is one thing: let this hell fade faster. Let the wounds close. Let me feel alive again. I won’t forgive him, but I’ll survive his betrayal—for *me.*