September 23 is the anniversary of my ex (and our dog, Rose1) moving out.
And I am going to be honest, here: I’ve been struggling the last few days.
Rationally, I get that he was not a good partner for me in many ways and I know that if he wanted to try again it would be, frankly, a dangerous thing for me to agree to. But I also know that his appalling behavior was the result of a spectacularly abusive childhood and so I give him a lot more grace than I would someone who did not have that background.
All that said, he has given me no hint that he thinks about me at all or, if he does, it is not fondly. And I think that is what hurts the most.
I wrote him a letter which I gave him on the day of our parting. I have no idea if he ever read it. I read it yesterday, again, and it was a good letter. I wished him well, truly and without reservation. I also stood up for myself–saying that his blaming me for the end of us does not make that a truth2. I said that he needed to accept that he has the power to make choices, like all adults do, and that he made a choice to end us; and that he was completely entitled to do that. I also said that sometimes our choices cause pain for others, necessary hurts, as his choice did me. I said that I understood that he did what he needed to and that my being hurt by that was unavoidable. It happens. But blaming me for his choice was, well, bullshit3.
I also pointed out that while he was a (powerless) victim as a child–he was not one now, er, then. I tried to explain that our ability to make our own choices in life is a good thing–it empowers us when we realize it. We have that control, that real control, to say “I choose not to live like this; I choose to live a different way.” He didn’t do something to me by ending us, he did something for himself. And he had every right to do so.
And then, I finished the letter wishing him a list of good things, like metta on steroids.
But, in the end, he did not leave me well. I mean, his behavior was not good from the time he pulled the plug until, well, it hasn’t gotten markedly better. He said before that if we ever broke up, he wanted to be as friendly as possible–for him, I guess it just wasn’t at all possible. And it sucks.
Being honest with myself means admitting that I was hoping that sometime in this year he would have said something conciliatory. Not “let’s get back together” stuff but rather something like “Hey, I behaved like a jerk at the end and I’m sorry” or “You were a good partner; it just didn’t work.” Just something… kind.
So, I think the reason I am so upset now is that I have to accept that I was a dork to ever hope to get that. I know better.
My most recent (and wonderful!) therapist said, last year, that I was repeating the pattern with my mother, trying to fix it. See, Mom died not talking to me4; she shot me the same hateful looks; I never got kind words despite everything I had done right and good, taking care of her while she, over the course of 18 months, died of lung cancer. Welp, my therapist was right about my pattern: I fell in love with someone who is very much like my mother, emotionally, and I had hoped for a different outcome.
I know better.
They (mental health pros) say relational trauma is healed in relationship. What they don’t always say is that sometimes that healing doesn’t mean a happy ending. It doesn’t mean we get what we (think we) want. That’s what happened to me. But it can mean we can see our patterns and be mindful enough to make better choices in the future. That’s, I hope, I think, also what happened to me.
The old me would reach out to him and try again to get that kind word. The more healed me knows that would be a super bad idea. So, instead, I think I’ll sip on a very fancy cocktail to mark the day, and my growth, and get on with my life.
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- I miss her a ton; but Ruthie is happier to live dog-free. ↩︎
- To be clear, I didn’t do anything like cheat or steal or even invade his privacy…there was no big causal event. ↩︎
- I did not use that terminology, of course. ↩︎
- Except for medically necessary orders or to say “Get out–I can’t stand to look at you.” Oh, and I was 18. ↩︎