It took two years to heal.
Two years ago, two days after Christmas, someone who I loved and opened myself up to more than most people became unrecognizable to me. The person I felt I gave myself to wholly and with whom I connected with so much that our three months of actual dating felt like years (in a good way) turned my entire world upside down.
I was leaving work after closing (I worked in retail), driving home, when I saw a text message. When I opened it, I saw a list of belongings, and to whom they should be given.
I was looking at a will. A texted will.
My boyfriend sent me a will. In a moment of manipulation—something I later realized I’d been dealing with for a while and would continue to deal with—he threatened suicide.
I won’t go into the details of the night. In a quick summation: he’d also sent cryptic messages to the other two friends in our small group, and as a result we all gathered at said friends’ house for somewhat of an intervention. There was yelling, crying (mostly from me), and anger. And so much confusion. I left, and spent the weekend with other people—friends and family—because I couldn’t be alone. I wanted to distract myself. I didn’t know if I was supposed to break up with him immediately or try and forgive him and move on.
But the decision was kind of made for me. We had a real conversation about a week and a half after the incident. I was planning to break up with him. When the conversation with him started, he started asking if I really wanted to throw all of the good in our relationship away because of one mistake. He said maybe people with his specific mental illness didn’t deserve to date, because they only end up screwing everything up. We sat in a coffee shop and I kept saying “I don’t know” when asked about the status of our relationship. It felt like my feelings and what was probably best for me was being brushed under the rug, and if I didn’t stay with him, I would end up losing more than just a relationship. And who knows what would have happened if I broke up with him in that moment? He could have done something to hurt himself. Or threatened to, again. So I told him we could move slow. I didn’t do what was best for me, and in doing so allowed this traumatic incident to continue negatively impacting me instead of working towards healing.
However, I eventually had no choice. I could not stay in a relationship with him. My feelings for him were not there, and I felt empty. I was scared of triggering him. It felt like anything I said could lead to a breakdown. It was not a way to live. So I broke up with him.
What followed was nasty. I didn’t want to tell him, or anyone, that the reason I broke up with him was because of the will. I don’t know why. I struggled to advocate for myself. I received mean text messages from him, claiming my expectations were too high. Claiming I was just experimenting with him. Claiming that he knew there was always something missing in our relationship but he chose to ignore it. He did everything he could but it wasn’t good enough for me. The relationship was always on my terms and he didn’t ever have a say. I tried to defend myself without being mean, but it was clear that no matter what I said, I was the bad guy in this story.
Months later, things came to a head again. In a conversation I was not prepared to be part of, he screamed at me. I said he hurt me, and he screamed that I hurt him so many times. That, I couldn’t allow. I knew I hurt him. But I wasn’t going to let him scream at me. So I told him the truth. I told him I broke up with him because of the will. Because I stopped recognizing who he was after that. If “unconditional love” was something he was so interested in, what type of unconditional love was that? Who does that? I said, and I have said multiple times, because he used “I have mental illness” as an excuse, that I also struggle with mental illness. But I never stood in the kitchen with scissors to my wrist to get attention.
The relationship was never the same after this. We were in close proximity due to a myriad of events and things we were part of together, and—to his credit too—we were never able to properly get over the breakup. And I couldn’t get over what he did. I had to pretend that I moved past it.
But I didn’t. I couldn’t. My life was still so linked to his.
So I took time off. I took a lot of time off. I stayed away. I needed to get to a point where I could say “you are not responsible for his life or anything he does in it and that’s okay.” I did not owe him anything. I did not have to be his best friend. Unless I felt he earned it. I could still have love for him, but I did not have to give him my energy if I didn’t feel like I could.
The time off didn’t necessarily make that happen. But therapy helped. Talking to my parents helped. Doing my own thing in grad school helped. Making moves and throwing myself into work helped. Reminding myself that I have come a long way and worked through things that people may never understand or even fathom has helped. I am strong. I have done it.
Is it perfect? No. Am I 100%? No. Is two years a long time to heal? Maybe. But this is my journey. And writing about it here is another step.
Peace, friends.
