Monthly Archives: September 2021

Sep13

Breaking free.

Posted on by
Standard

There’s something about breakups that make me come out on the other side stronger and more in love with me and everything I still have in life. Even when it feels like things might be falling apart, or that I might be meant for singledom. When things fall apart, I learn just how many people I have in my corner; even when it feels like I’ve grown incredibly distant with everyone because I’m an introvert used to being alone.

They show up for me and it feels good.

This isn’t easy. I’m struggling. I’m hurt. I’m lost. I’m heartbroken. We’re still living together. We still sleep in the same bed at night. It’s incredibly difficult to walk through a house with someone who I firmly believed the best in him only for him to break up with me because he believed the worst in me. He held his ex and all her faults over my head as if I was her and it’s difficult to grapple with his reasonings when at the core of our breakup is not our relationship, it’s his schedule and his inability to communicate and love.

I can’t read minds. And I shouldn’t be faulted for such.

I dated a runner, though. What could I expect? I dated a man who has never been chosen and will only love his dogs. He loves the idea of love but I can’t say if he ever loved me. It sure doesn’t feel like it. You don’t give up on the people you love simply because something got difficult, or someone got busy.

I prosper with breakups. I suck at dating and finding good, mature men, but I prosper with breakups and excel at finding me.

And understanding what I deserve.

I deserve more than someone who will walk two feet ahead of me when going on a date and will let the door slam on me instead of waiting or holding it open.

I deserve someone who is willing to have the patience to win my kid over and work through issues, who understands she’s seven—and that by saying such is not an excuse, it’s cause to teach her and show her acceptance.

I deserve more than someone who will snuggle and love on all three dogs and then only give me a quick quiet shout before walking out the door or ignore me completely.

I deserve more than someone who believes that because I’m not his mother nor the mother of his child, he doesn’t have to recognize or celebrate Mother’s Day for or with me. I should not have to explain to someone that loving me is accepting that I’m a mom and therefor celebrating that with me, especially when Mother’s Day is one of my favorite holidays—highlighting all the accomplishments I’ve done to get where I am, everything I’ve overcome as a full time single mom.

I deserve more than having to pick up and pay for my own birthday dinner for the entire family.

I deserve more than just a “how much money will you make off that?” while still glancing at his phone when I announced I just released and published my first book of poetry, a longstanding childhood dream of mine that finally came through. I also deserve someone who will take enough interest to see what the book looks like and will at the minimum flip through its pages.

I deserve someone who will follow through with wanting to celebrate my first real estate sale rather than just chalking it up to his dad “doing me a favor” (I sold his grandma’s house).

I deserve someone who wants to show up to events and parties with me that we’re invited to and tries to recognize each other’s schedule instead of one reigning priority.

I deserve someone who will communicate with me when he’s going to be three hours late to our plans because he stayed longer with friends than he had initially said he would—and understands the difference between this being respectful of my time and not me being controlling. I should not have to explain this to someone.

I deserve someone who will not neglect my daughter’s birthday.

I deserve someone who will not tell my daughter to lie to me or keep something from me.

I deserve someone who will console me or talk to me when he makes me cry, not ignore me or intentionally hurt me more.

I deserve someone who will not attempt to belittle me in order to feel superior—this is a partnership, after all.

I deserve more than someone whose go to defense mechanism when Evelynn acts up is that he is not his father and she is not his responsibility, especially when I have never said anything remotely similar about his own son. And he should not be telling this to her with anger in his tone.

I deserve someone who wants to show me off and take me out and will speak highly of me.

I deserve someone who will believe in the best of me, be honest with me, love me, and respect me.

We met during covid, when things were relatively easy and we didn’t have jobs to show up to and we could be present for each other so easily. We could skip off to the beach, deliver GrubHub and DoorDash together, talk endlessly about life and philosophies and beliefs and our past. It is so incredibly hard reconciling this man; who I know he can be with who he ended up being. Why do I still believe the best in him? Why did I let all those things I didn’t deserve slide?

He taught Evelynn how to ride a bike. He taught her how to use her fingers and nose to do math. He taught her the alphabet in a manner where she could remember it. He was around when her own father only showed up five times in a year for her. He prioritized showing up for her school conference over coaching cheer. He would help her build a sandcastle and play in the water with her, two things I’m just not great at doing, whenever we went to the beach. He would lay in her dirty pool with her just because she asked and didn’t want to be alone. When she started calling him daddy in public, he took it in stride and just let her do her thing, what she wanted and needed. When she later was insistent that he was NOT her dad whenever she was asked, he accepted it even though it bothered him, her aggressiveness in stating that he wasn’t.

I’m not easy to date me. The whole 100% custody thing is difficult to get around. I’m a packaged deal, there’s no way around it. There is no break from parenting in my world. Andy took it all on. When Evelynn’s dad scolded her for calling Andy “daddy” and spoke negatively of Andy and his family to her, it created a major riff and thus began the spiral of Evelynn acting out against Andy. Her father was jealous and began ruining her relationship with the only man that had stuck around and took on the fatherhood role of showing up for her, asking her about her day, encouraging her with her education, not allowing her fear to get in her way of achievements.

Andy helped her break through so many barriers.

I hate her dad and hate is not a word I allow to be said in this house. It’s not something I allow in Evelynn’s vocabulary. Yet, I have spent too much energy wishing he would just disappear. What father does that to his daughter? Discourages a healthy relationship. I would have hoped that a man willing to step up and be there for her would have been an amazing thing to embrace and be comforted by.

Jealousy really is an ugly green monster.

Not to mention her own dad forgot her birthday. I can’t be shocked, he only saw her five times last year and has a history of cancelling, hence why we’re down to only every other month of supervised visits. He’s lied about being sick so many times I blocked him on social media—I was completely over the blatant truth of him instead being too hungover or wanting to hit the golf course because he didn’t prioritize seeing his daughter.

Andy, despite his conditioning to hold a grudge and not willing to be around to celebrate Evelynn’s birthday, showed up in other ways. He allowed us to move into a house he bought designed for just him and two dogs. Instead, he got three other humans (his son moved in with him about a month before we met) and yet another dog. He hasn’t had the ability to enjoy this home he bought all on his own through hard work and perseverence. We moved in and took over, and that’s another grudge he’s holding over my head.

But I never needed shelter from him. I needed love and support.

And grace and acceptance, as I had shown him.

I needed communication and no judgment.

And I needed a cheerleader. For being a cheer coach, he failed at cheering me on the moment it was inconvenient for him.

I don’t get a clean breakaway. I’m stuck until I find housing and it hurts.

There are so many moments where I would just be enraptured by him. I’d just stare at him and be so in love. I was so sure of him. I felt so unbelievably safe with him. My favorite sound was when him and Evelynn would wrestle and he would make her belly laugh. God, I miss that sound. I miss him being the sole reason for that sound.

It is utterly heartbreaking to find yourself at the end of a relationship where you thought you would and could spend the rest of your life with the person. When he was job searching, I had told him to look wherever he needs to because I could sell real estate anywhere. And we had fully discussed this possibility.

Somehow, instead, only months later, we’re over. That’s really fucking hard to accept.

While attraction draws me to someone, compatibility keeps me around. I was so sure we could make it through anything. It’s depressing to learn you’re the only one in love and willing to fix things, believing in your relationship.

All those things I deserve, I mean it. However, I also knew he could do them if he wanted to.

I remember our first fight. He’s a yeller. He sees red. It consumes him. He yelled so hard he spit on me—accidentally! Don’t get your panties in a bunch (still spit though, I know). I told him to walk away from me.

The next day I made it clear that I am not someone to speak to like such and that we will not have arguments of such nature. It’s not something I will allow. It’s not something I want my daughter to view as an acceptable form of communication. It’s not something I want his son to see and think is okay to replicate.

He never did it again. Not once. He learned to walk away when heated or upset. He learned to calm down first.

And I noticed. It meant something to me, oh dear lord how it meant everything to me, that he understood what I wouldn’t allow and didn’t do it again.

It’s hard moving on when I’m still here in this god damn house, sleeping in the same bed with him, exchanging niceties. It’s all so fake. I thought he was my best friend—he’s not. I still want to fight for us but again, I can’t be the only one wanting to fight for us; and also, again, I do not need someone in my life who doesn’t want me in theirs.

There are moments when I forget we’re broken up, and then it hits.

Those moments floor me. They knock me down. Makes it hard for me to breathe.

I still want his arms wrapped around me at night when we’re on the couch. I still want a kiss goodbye when one of us leaves to go somewhere. I still want to be invested in his day and accomplishments. I still want to be able to touch him in bed at night. Still want to love him and show him love.

How am I, really? I have a way of breaking free with breakups. I realize what I’ve compromised on that I never should have allowed. I will come out on top, I always come out stronger. Despite feeling lost, I have a way of grounding myself. I know I have a hell of a lot to offer someone, someone who will appreciate me and what we have; and I also know that I’m the best he will ever have, in all aspects.

I said what I said.

When he first mentioned going on a break, I wanted to hold on to the idea that he just wanted space and for us to date, traditionally, after I moved out…. but let’s be real, that was just worthless words he said in passing to ease the blow because he didn’t have the respect for me to break if off. I had to force him to make a decision. And let’s be realer, why would I want to hold on when he was letting me go so easily? It felt like he was leaving me to drown as he steered the boat away.

I loved hard and deeply and I lost big for it. I can be okay with this knowledge. I know, leaving, that I gave him everything. I showed up for him. I celebrated his wins. I cooked and meal prepped for him to make his nights after a long day easier. I took care of his dogs, and dealt with their attitudes and the one’s aggressive psychotic episodes, without refusal to do so or claims that they weren’t mine. I made sure his son ate every night. I didn’t push him away or reject him. I changed up my routine and how I do things to fit his style.

He did a lot for me…when it was convenient for him. That is where all the hurt lies.

I showed up for him regardless; behind closed doors where no one else could enter and in the public eye.

I made clear that I still love him and wanted to work on things, be with him. I made clear that I still believed we both could do better and be happy together. I made clear that even though there were things in our life I was unhappy with, at the end of the day having him made me happy overall.

And I made these things clear without hearing them in return. All I got was a “well, we’re definitely on a break, I know that much.”

So I’m working on breaking free because wild horses run in me.

Sep6

Just walk on.

Posted on by
Standard

I thought I had hit rock bottom almost 13 years ago. This past week proved me wrong if you went at all by the liters of tears shed. I was broken and lost. I got everything so wrong.

Thirteen years ago I had to pick myself up off the kitchen floor. I was broken down by the nightmares, the replays, every time I closed my eyes, every time I got close to a guy. I couldn’t see through the madness. I was living in denial until the darkness suffocated me. I thought the only way to get through was getting out; drinking myself into a state where I couldn’t think nor remember wasn’t working.

I grabbed the sharpest knife I could find in the kitchen; and I kept wondering how much cutting I’d have to do to get the job done, how much blood would there have to be, how red all these damn fucking white cabinets and tile would be, and if they could even get the stains out. I really wanted to know how long the pain would last. How deep I’d have to cut—if I’d be able to cut deep enough—for it to be quick.

Knife in one hand, phone in the other, I don’t remember getting up. I don’t remember hanging up the phone. I don’t remember dropping the knife—did I put it down on the counter?

I only remember flipping the switch and turning off the lights.

I am beyond stubborn. It’s one of the reasons why I’m likely hard to date—at least I know it, though, right?

The stubbornness got me through. Helped me see to the other side. I couldn’t let him win.

I don’t like my birthday. It’s a shitty reminder of the first guy I really dated—he shares my birthday—and what he took from me.

Why don’t people of sexual assault and rape speak up? We have to fight with ourselves to get through it, and then we have to fight others for our stories to be heard, and then there’s the nonbelievers picking us apart. It’s the one crime guaranteed to rip us apart twice. It’s never just the incident, it’s the after effects.

I was a virgin.

And then I wasn’t.

The first time I openly spoke about it was in a college nonfiction writing course. The paper was assigned around the time of my birthday, and it consumed me—the nightmares, the fear, never really leaves. It had been over three years but I was back in that bedroom, under him, like not a minute had passed. By the time the paper was due it was too late for me to change the topic and write something new.

I have since wrote and deleted the story countless times. Every anniversary, every birthday. How do you talk about an event that cripples your tongue, that you don’t want to answer questions to, but that you physically need to release from your shoulders? That you need to let out into the world. That you need to let go of. A weight you can’t and shouldn’t have to carry.

Sometimes I’ve wondered if it weren’t for Evelynn how much strength would I have?

The first time it happened was long before she came along in my life.

The second time? Almost seven years ago, only weeks after her birth and on my birthday.

That fucking birthday of mine.

No, that second time wasn’t the same guy. Yes, both were guys I dated.

I have intimacy issues. I don’t need a therapist to outline or draw up a map to find the root problem. I’ve faced it in the bedroom multiple times—the difference is all the other guys stop when I say. They don’t force me as soon as I say “No” or turn away.

My stubbornness pushed me forward. Forced me to focus on tomorrow. Stop living in the past. I swam my damn self to shore. I breathed for air when I thought I would drown. I walked on.

The road was unpaved with no mile markers or street signs, but I walked it headstrong and alone.

I have high standards—I won’t date less than my worth again. And I’m too damn old to teach a guy how to treat me…again. My standards are my shield. I’m real quick to leave any relationship that no longer fulfills me, that no longer gives me happiness.

I create my own happiness, but I’ll be damned if another relationship brings me down.

There was nothing normal about our relationship. We didn’t get to date—we met during quarantine. He met my daughter on the first “date”, which was going on a walk. I quickly gave him allowance to co-parent. We fully moved in together within only a few months. We’ve had to navigate each of us starting new jobs within the first year together during a pandemic.

I thought this time was it. For the first time, I felt safe. I thought I was loved. I forgot about the past. I was so certain. Everything felt so incredibly natural. Even when it was hard and we were navigating something new together, I felt assured. For the first time in my life I fell full on in love, and I did so without fear. It felt beautiful.

I had never really loved before, never allowed myself to. When I spoke it, it was a lie due to the guy’s expectations.

This one was different. It was refreshing.

I have a knack for getting it wrong, though.

Here’s the thing. I don’t need someone to pull me out of the deep end, out of my worst self, out of my nightmares. I don’t need someone to take care of me.

I pulled myself out twice before. I’ll do it again. I do it every single time.

If I can survive the conviction that suicide could have been the answer, I can survive anything. I have two lungs that breathe, legs that not only walk but can run. I have a daughter—albeit as stubborn as I—who grounds me. I have people in my corner. I have everything I need.

I don’t need someone in my life who doesn’t even know if they want me in theirs.

Read that again.

I

do not

need

someone

in my life

who doesn’t even know

if they want me

in theirs.

One week ago, Andy said he wanted a break. Scratch that, “we are definitely on a break.”

First, what the fuck is even a break in a relationship besides a Friends show fantasy?

Second, if you haven’t learned, I don’t do breaks. I’m absolutely terrible at hitting pause. My brain goes static and my body convulses at the idea. I like movement. And I’m not sure what good it does waiting around for someone who claims to be unhappy about so many things in their life but is solely blaming me and our relationship for it all. He’s not hitting pause on anything else, just us. (Thanks Bill, for my sign.)

I’m not okay with that. I’ve spent more time in the last week crying than not crying—I’m not someone who cries.

It hasn’t been a perfect relationship—I don’t think any relationship is perfect. However, I do fully believe they are a reflection of how two people work through problems and respect each other.

I can’t be the only one wanting to fix things or wanting to try. It’s that simple.

Some people believe distance can make the heart grow fonder—apparently, he thinks space will provide the answer if he misses me or not, misses what he had or not—but we’re still living in the same house. There is no room for “space” in this house.

And there is the root of all my pain this past week.

I don’t even get a clean break up. I’m just getting a break, a maybe, an “I’m not kicking you and Evelynn out.” Seriously, bless his heart for that kindness, not many men would be so willing. But limbo is purgatory for me. I walk through this house struggling—failing—to keep it together while he hums and goes about his day as if nothing has changed. How could I mean so little to someone who meant so God damn much to me?

When I made the decision to move out—not easy in this housing market, by the way, and as a real estate agent, I know—it broke me even more. Especially because it’s not immediate. I’m still here—this fucking holiday weekend. And it means I’ll be throwing money away at rent, not even an investment—cue another bullet hole.

But I’m not the girl who sits around and waits for a man to decide if he even wants me. I’m not second best. I’m not a second thought. You don’t get to give me up like I’m a light switch to be flicked on and off.

Saturday, I spent the entire day searching for rentals and housing options. It took a toll on me. By nightfall I packed up a suitcase and drove across the state to my parents for the night. I needed out. It’s hard watching someone so easily throw away something that was so good without hesitation. You doubt yourself and everything you thought you knew in the relationship.

I gave this man everything, easily. I would have given him more if he’d asked. Right now, he also took my ability to trust. I’m not sure he realizes that even if he chose me again, that I could choose him without fear that he would do this again. He cleanly chipped off a piece of my heart. It’s not about how much I love him or want him, it’s about a relationship where two people want each other and will work through things together. Not with a wall up between them. It’s about a partnership not two ships sailing in the night.

Sometimes, the very thing that hurts the most—my god does it hurt—is the very thing we need to do, to respect and protect ourselves. I don’t want to walk away but am I even really the one walking away if he already has a foot out the door?

Yesterday I was told, “Well, if there’s one thing I know it’s that you’ll get through this. You always do. You’re stubborn enough to make anything work once you’ve made the decision. You’ve done it with every new job and Evelynn. You always make it work.”

My dad ain’t wrong. I do and I will.

Every time.

I might be broken and the future feels very unknown but this still stands: I’ve picked up those broken pieces before and put myself back together; and I sure as hell am no stranger to traveling the unknown road. I may have taken the wrong turn somewhere, but I’ll end up where I need to be.