While I didn't publish this more than a year ago when it was written, I still think it's important that it's out there in the event that another beautiful, buoyant woman in a time of need is able to stumble upon it.
I remember the day we met, when I was more than willing to welcome any and every opportunity that darted my way. After a year-and-a-half of modest highs and devastating lows, it wasn’t until nearly six months later and someone else’s post on her encounter of emotional abuse that I realized the different forms in which it can appear.
I don’t blame you entirely. It isn’t that you didn’t like some of my friends. It isn’t that you passed judgment on a lot of things I said. It isn’t even that you disappeared and came back more times than I care to admit; it’s that I let you. I had far too much invested in the chicanery that I was thriving on blind faith.
I thought you were being too hard on yourself; that you let your fear of being undeserving of love overshadow your realized happiness. So I convinced myself that your stinted admiration followed by brief abandonment and back again wouldn’t deter me from trying to catch you every time you fell. The truth is I ate it up. I grew comfortable in our own ... my own dysfunction that I perhaps began to crave it.
Maybe you think 'emotional abuse' is too tough of a term to swallow. But for every compliment and every positive remark, there were a handful of disdainful faults that followed. You mentioned once that you thought I might be shallow — my worst enemy wouldn’t call me shallow. You asked why I wore makeup and curled my hair before I left the house, and in the same breath asked what boyfriend would ever be happy that their girlfriend bought a one-piece bathing suit. You explained to me the positive things each of your closest friends brings to your life, but told me you didn’t really know what I brought. The amount of times you made me feel loved fell far short of the times in which you made me feel like I wasn’t even worthy.
I’m a fairly uncomplicated person, but I take full blame in my part of being the oil to your water and somehow watching our relationship repeatedly combust. The truth is, I don’t think you’re a good guy who made a lot of mistakes; I think you’re a miserable guy who I let make a lot of mistakes for far too long.
I’m a pretty tough bitch. So it was disenchanting to realize that I let someone emotionally stunt my growth as a confident, resilient woman. But now I embrace it, and it makes me even stronger. (I also embrace perfectly tousled hair, books that fall short of your self-perceived intellect level, and using the wrong word every now and again.)
The only real reason I’m writing an open letter is because you once wanted to know why you’re closer to 40 than you are 30 and still single. It’s because you don’t like yourself, and you project that onto your relationships. You’re not looking for the perfect woman; you’re looking for the imperfect woman whom you can blame for being imperfect in order to escape your own personal woes. We’ve all got demons, but you’re the only person I know who uses those demons to diminish someone else’s self-worth. For your sake and for the sake of the next wonderful woman whose potential you question, figure yourself out. I’ve got a couple books I can recommend along your path to self-realization.
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Wednesday, May 3, 2017
Monday, November 7, 2016
Dreadful Reunions
All I want out of life is a warm bed, a kind heart and unlimited power—the kind that comes with the Apple employee discount. Or the advanced knowledge that I’m about to run into someone I know so I can act/appear accordingly. My landlord, so I can turn up my earbuds and look right as he passes left on the street; the newest flavor of the week, so I can do 75 crunches after only having a salad that day; my best friend so I don’t wear the shirt she lent me six months ago that I swear I don’t have; or my ex, so I can do 75 crunches after only having a salad that day. That kind of power is really something, even when it comes to miniscule daily tasks.
Sometime ago, I found myself on the awkward end of a conversation that I typically try to avoid. I found myself talking with an ex, where the questions being asked were those of a cliché nature—the conversation in which you swore you’d never take part. You know, the ones where you initiate with an, “Ohmygosh! How are you?” followed by some variation of what’s new, how are things… you get the gist. The smorgasbord of questions to ask an ex is endless, although they’re essentially the same. The worst part about this particular conversation is that I was on the asking end.
I found myself not particularly interested in what I was asking, but it just kept coming up—like word vomit. I asked, “What are you up to?” but what it really sounded like was, “Think. Think of any reason to leave. Any.reason.will do.” I guess I brought all these cookie-cutter responses on myself.
“I’m great,” “Not much,” and “Things are going really well,” which is always exaggerated. But no one is going to let an ex think they aren’t fabulous, and haven’t been every minute of every day since you had that not-so-amicable breakup six years earlier.
Let’s face it; no one really needs to be friends with an ex. They’re called that for a reason; X ‘em on out. Can’t we just say help, knowing we have a mutual understanding where each of us think the other sucks at something we couldn’t get over and call it a day?
It isn’t that I don’t care what you have to say; it’s just that, I had the same conversation at my appointment with my gynecologist last week and it was less awkward.
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