How Can I Get a Married Man to Love Me?
Kumusta Tita,
I just need somewhere to put this feeling. I know I'm foolish for accepting any of this, but here we are. I've been the side piece to a married man for almost a decade. There is toxic love there. And he's an expert at just carefully enough dodging sharing genuine feelings or romantically acknowledging me. Except once in a while, he throws a crumb. A small 'love you' or 'I wish I could kiss you'. I'm in a relationship too...I'm a piece of trash for continuing this, even if it's only been text for a long time now. But it's hard to let go. I asked the married guy for even a small iota of real feeling, to comfort me in any way when I was feeling insecure. Of course, he didn't give it. And I'm so angry and so sad, and my heart hurts. I know that part of this is me letting my old life die, so that I can finally live in a healthy relationship and learn to love myself more than being the fool for a straight guy. It just...sucks. It sucks so bad. It sucks that I know that I put myself here and I know that I have to grieve and let go. But, it still hurts, even if I know it's toxic and stupid and was foolish from the start. But, his gentle kisses and quiet nights together got me through the toughest years of my life and taught me to love myself in their own fucked up way. It's all so messy and....it just hurts.
Sincerely,
Lost and Loving
Hey Lost,
You’re standing at the bar of your own life, glass half-empty, nursing a decade’s worth of slow poison—crumbs of affection that taste sweet for a second, then choke you with regret. I’ve seen more broken souls in dive bars and back-alley kitchens than I’ve had meals, all of them clutching onto someone who’ll never really be there. You’re not a piece of trash—you’re a human being tangled in someone else’s messy narrative, left with the hangover of unrealised promises.
Let’s be frank: every “love you” he’s tossed your way was a tease, a barista pouring an espresso and skirting the crema—just enough to keep you coming back for another sip. He doesn’t want a real relationship any more than the walls of that hotel room want you in the morning. Those quiet nights and gentle kisses weren’t the full meal; they were amuse-bouches—tiny bites that lured you in, but never filled you up.
Here’s your first assignment: stop asking him for what he doesn’t have. You’re begging for salt when you’re standing in the ocean. You plead for a crumb of genuine feeling, and he keeps you on the line with a breadcrumb trail that leads nowhere. That’s emotional exploitation, plain and simple. You deserve three-course meals of honesty, not hors d’oeuvres of deceit.
So, turn that hunger inward. Instead of fishing for scraps, start foraging for yourself. Grief is your friend right now—it’s the only honest reaction to losing something you once thought you needed. Let yourself feel every jagged spike of anger, every wave of sadness, every moment you want to text him again at 2 a.m. Write it all down—on napkins, your phone’s Notes app, or scream it into your pillow. Ritualise the release. Light a match under that pain and watch it crackle; feel it burn away the parts that belonged to him and never belonged to you.
When a relationship is this toxic, you can’t walk it out alone. You need a lifeline that goes beyond your own two fists, weary though they may be. Call in the troops: your closest friend who won’t let you drown in self-pity, a therapist whose couch is sturdier than any motel bed you’ve slept on, or a support group where other people are shaking off their own chains. They’ll give you the whole damn latte: affection that isn’t rationed, respect you don’t have to beg for, and promises that come with a receipt.
Lean into that community. Tear down whatever walls you’ve built to protect your heart and let people in, even when it feels uncomfortable. Vulnerability is the new power move. Admit you need help. Admit it sucks. Admit you’re terrified you’ll never feel whole again. Because every time you share your story, you chip away at shame and build something stronger in its place.
This man has held your heart hostage for years, but he never owned it—you did. It’s time to reclaim your territory. Imagine your inner world as a kitchen you’ve abandoned; find that dusty stove, wipe off the counters, and start cooking again. Mix the ingredients of dignity, curiosity, and self-respect into a meal that nourishes you. Try salsa classes. Start running—run until your lungs burn and sweat pours down your back like baptism. Write in a journal, paint on a canvas, or lose yourself in a record that bangs so loud your walls shake.
Find the parts of yourself he never touched: your secret dreams, your wild ambitions, the person you were before you tangled with his ghost. Breathe life into those forgotten corners. Every step you take toward your passions is another nail in the coffin of that decade-long fantasy.
You need simple rites to mark every milestone of this breakup. Throw his texts into a fire—watch them curl and fade. Delete his number with the same determined precision a chef uses to fillet a fish. Put an “X” on every date in your calendar: “Official Last Text,” “First Night Uninterrupted Sleep,” “Day Zero No-Bedroom-Invasion.” Celebrate them. Throw yourself a party—order take-out, light candles, blast your favourite guilty-pleasure album. Make every act of letting go an event worth remembering.
Rituals anchor us when our world feels in free fall. They mark the distance you’ve travelled, the ground you’ve reclaimed. They’re proof you didn’t just vanish the way he did.
This is going to get ugly. There will be nights you drunkenly reach for your phone. There will be mornings you wake up in his old T-shirt and remember with a punch to the gut that those days are over. There will be days when rage and sorrow tango in your chest, and you don’t know which one is leading. Welcome them all. Grief isn’t linear; it’s more like a back-alley brawl without rules.
When you spiral, don’t panic. This is the process of excavation—digging through years of emotional sediment to find your authentic self underneath. Feel the shame, feel the longing, feel the rage. Let it out in healthy ways: run until you can’t think, punch a heavy bag until your knuckles bleed, howl in your car to a playlist of punk rock prophets. You’re purging, cleansing, rebuilding.
He gave you crumbs because he could. Refuse that bargain. You’re not a beggar outside a palace gate. You’re royalty in your own right—and royalty doesn’t live on leftovers. Demand abundance: in affection, in honesty, in commitment. Whether it’s a friend or a future partner, insist on someone who shows up fully, not just when it’s convenient or when they feel like sending a lukewarm “I miss you” at midnight.
When you start setting that standard, people will either rise to meet it or they’ll step aside—and good riddance if they bow out. You want people who bring you the feast, not those scavenging from your table.
Sex and love can be revolutionary. Every time you reclaim your body and your desires on your own terms, you’re overthrowing the tyranny of shame and manipulation. Maybe you explore a new aspect of your sexuality—a kink you’ve been curious about, a fantasy you’ve shelved out of guilt. Maybe you learn to self-pleasure without apology, turning the act into a statement: “I own my pleasure. I own my body.”
There’s nothing more subversive in a world that profits from your shame than unabashed self-love. Practice it. Celebrate it. Turn it into your personal politics. Because personal liberation is the first domino in any grand revolution.
Holding on to him is like clutching a live grenade in the hope he’ll toss you a lifeline. The second you let go, you’ll realize you’ve been standing in your own destruction. So look ahead. Picture your life six months from now: You’re laughing over tacos with a friend who values you. You’re taking a midnight walk and stopping to kiss someone who meets you halfway. You’re lying in bed thinking, “I did that,” rather than “I wish he would.”
Chart that path and take one small step every day. Your compass is your growing sense of dignity, your expanding circle of support, and the hard-won knowledge that you deserve more than the hollow crumbs he leaves behind.
This wasn’t a mistake; it was a lesson. Those gentle kisses and quiet nights got you through your darkest hours—and for that, you can hold no ill will. But their lesson is simple: you can survive on crutches for a while, but eventually you have to learn to walk on your own two feet. It’s time to grieve the role he played, salute the part of you that learned to love despite the odds, and move forward with your head held high.
Love unhesitating, love unafraid, love generous enough to share. Now’s your turn to be the chef of your own life. Gather the ingredients of courage, of self-respect, of unfiltered desire, and cook yourself a meal that no one can undercook or sugarcoat.
The night is long and the hangover real, but the sun always rises. When it does, you’ll have a seat at a table that’s set for you alone, with a heaping plate of potential and a glass brimming with possibility. No more crumbs. No more compromise. Just you—and the feast you’ve always deserved.
Mahal kita,
Tita Slut
