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.