That was one of the things an ex partner said to me near the end of the relationship.

“You used to make me laugh.”

At first glance it sounds harmless. Almost sad. Like someone missing the early days of a relationship.

But the more I thought about it, the more it stayed with me.

Because after everything I had done for her, after everything I had carried emotionally, physically and mentally, that was what it had been reduced to entertainment.

Like my role in the relationship was to keep her happy, keep her smiling, keep her distracted from her own struggles, while slowly losing myself in the process.

And the truth is, for a long time, I tried to do exactly that.

I supported her when she was struggling emotionally.

I looked after her child when she was away.

I bought flowers.

I bought gifts.

I reassured her constantly.

I reminded her every single day how loved she was, how beautiful she was, how caring she was.

I poured energy into making her feel safe, wanted, and emotionally held.

But somewhere along the line, I realised something painful.

The emotional support only flowed one way.

When she was struggling, I was expected to step up.

When I was struggling, I was often left alone with it.

That imbalance is something many people experience in relationships with avoidant or narcissistic personalities. You become the emotional provider. The fixer. The rescuer. The one expected to absorb stress while asking for very little in return.

At first, it can even feel rewarding because you love the person and want to help them heal.

But over time you start abandoning yourself to keep the relationship functioning.

You become hyper focused on their moods. Their needs. Their reactions. Their happiness.

And eventually exhaustion starts replacing connection.

Looking back now, I think the “you used to make me laugh” comment hurt because it ignored everything deeper underneath the relationship.

The loyalty.

The care.

The patience.

The emotional labour.

The sacrifices.

The support I gave when nobody else was around.

It reduced years of love down to performance.

As though my worth was measured by how entertaining or emotionally useful I was to someone else.

What she never seemed to understand was this:

People stop laughing when they are emotionally drained.

They stop being light when they are carrying the weight of an entire relationship on their shoulders.

They stop performing when they no longer feel emotionally safe themselves.

I wasn’t becoming cold.

I wasn’t becoming distant.

I was becoming exhausted.

There is a huge difference.

One of the hardest parts of healing after relationships like this is realising how much of yourself you slowly gave away trying to keep another person emotionally regulated.

You become so focused on being enough for them that you stop asking whether they are enough for you.

Therapy helped me understand that.

For a long time I thought I had failed because the relationship changed. I thought maybe if I had been funnier, calmer, more patient, less emotional, less reactive, things would have gone differently.

But healthy relationships are not built on one person constantly managing the emotional atmosphere for two people.

Real love is mutual.

Support is mutual.

Care is mutual.

You should not have to earn love by becoming someone’s therapist, rescuer, entertainer, emotional punching bag, and reassurance machine all at the same time.

And if you are reading this recognising yourself in these words, please understand this:

You were not hard to love.

You were just giving your love to someone who only truly valued you when you were meeting their emotional needs while ignoring your own.

That lesson took me a long time to learn.

A lot of therapy.

A lot of breakdowns.

A lot of rebuilding.

But it also became part of why I started writing.

Many of the themes in my books, including A Fine Line Between Love and Hate, They Became The Chapter. You Became The Author, and The Narcassist Handbook, came from trying to understand these kinds of relationships and the emotional damage they can leave behind.

Not just the heartbreak itself.

But the slow erosion of your identity while trying to keep somebody else happy.

Healing starts when you stop asking, “Why wasn’t I enough for them?”

And start asking:

“Why did I believe I had to abandon myself to be loved at all?”