The drought was the very worst
When the flowers that we’d grown together died of thirst
It was months, and months of back and forth
You’re still all over me like a wine-stained dress I can’t wear anymore
Hung my head as I lost the war, and the sky turned black like a perfect storm
Everyone thinks that if you ended a relationship on your terms, you are 100% fine with the situation. I can’t tell you how many people have told me before “well if you ended it, then what’s the problem?”
Relationships are not always black and white. They aren’t even grey. Sometimes there’s other shades. In this situation, there was a lot of blues added to the mix.
As for being “fine” with a life changing decision, I would seriously wonder why you were even in it to being with if you were just “fine”. Why waste that person’s time or yours if your opinion of losing them is being “fine”? Ending a relationship that you don’t want to end is gut wrenching. It’s even worse when that person lives with you. Not only are you droping your comfort zone or someone from life, you’re losing a best friend, a roommate, and someone you once thought you would marry. In some sense, it’s like a death.
Only it’s even more of a mind fuck because you have the option to talk to them, but know that it won’t make a difference, and their receptiveness to what you have to say might not be as equal to yours. You have to stop talking to the one person that was your world.
I’ve cried enough tears in the last 48 hours to not give a shit about the games they tell you to play. People tell you to stand tall, act indifferent, and not be a mess. You may look like a bitch, but it’s better to keep your dignity then let them see your tears.
If I’m the first to admit it, I don’t care. I am a mess. I’m sad. I’m angry. More so than any other feeling, I’m disappointed. I gave everything I could to something and it didn’t work out. I loved wholeheartedly and I wanted the seeds we had planted together to grow. When our relationship started to die, it was like staring at soil waiting for the seeds to sprout. I threw fertilizer on it, watered it, changed the direction. In the end, I was as exhausted as the seeds and overwelmed with grief.
When we grow up, we imagine that we would meet someone, fall in love with them, and live our happily ever after. At 26 I’m old enough to realize that’s not only an extremely rare case, it’s next to impossible. People change and they grow in different ways. By the midtwenties, you have to face the fact that you are either going to grow tall, grow sideways, or stay If someone doesn’t want to grow in the same direction than you, it’s very hard to find your happily ever after.
There comes a time in your life when you realize that a relationship that’s going to grow has to have goals and limits. As you make your goals with eachother to grow together, you also have to make limits to what you are okay with. If someone hits those limits, you have to love yourself enough to get out. I stopped writing. I started to believe all of the things he said about me. I changed myself and tried to be better to what he said. Don’t get confused that I am a victim or was the perfect angel. I had said my share and have dug my own holes. I was just the first to wave the white flag and say “Enough”.
The difference between “passion” and “emotional abuse” is a fine line. You’ve seen the stereotypical movies to where the Italian couple is screaming one moment and then making out the next. You’re told that that’s a relationship and taught that that’s the embodiment passion. No, he never lifted a finger to me, but his words cut me as deep. But when you’re told “you’re unattractive”, “almost got that ring” or someone would rather use their hand then be with you, where’s the passion in that? I found myself passionately drinking a bottle of wine rather than feeling passionate.
The word “Bitch” has been thrown around casually at me the past few days. Why are women who stand up for their limits always a “bitch”, but a guy that stands up for his limits in a relationship “dodged a bullet”? Why can’t we change this stereotype of the word “bitch” to “strong”? I’m strong enough to admit that I loved him wholeheartedly, but our love wasn’t healing the word wounds. We were just applying another bandaid on top of another one on top of another one, and letting the bandaid fester and rot the skin underneath. It wasn’t healing, it was only covering.
Sometimes walking away is the only option.
Not because you want someone to miss you, realize what they took for granted, or change for the better to be your happily ever after.
Sometimes walking away is the only option because you finally respect yourself to know your limits and you’re taking pride in sticking to them. Ripping the bandaid off is the only way to heal. It’s scary, you’ve lost control of the situation, and you have lost something that once was special.
But once you rip that bandaid off and let the wound air out, that’s when you can finally breathe.