My safe relationship. We were happy, for the most part.
We were best friends; we made each other laugh, tease each other. He was so supportive and loyal.
He always encouraged me, made me feel beautiful, safe and loved. I needed him, he needed me.
We always had loads of fun together.
We would gossip, we would make little plans for our future, we would be cheesy and corny and full of love.
Every night, we’d video call and talk about our day. He’d make me laugh, always. I loved our time together, just us.
He made me feel safe, so.. so lovely. So beautiful.
The way he held me, the way we’d intertwine our bodies, the way he’d look at me. Everything. It was like I finally found my safe harbor, I finally found my man, my love, my home.
When we were in a good place, it was as though we were in heaven.
Like he said, “our hearts are tied together by a string in heaven.”
But. There is a but.
When we were in a bad place… it was hell for me.
And it was always the weekend. We’d always fight at the start of the weekend, through the weekend.
The fights were always my fault. He said that it was always me, my fault.
He hated whenever I started overthinking, when I assumed, when I showed my mental illness out loud.
He hated the fact that I worried every-time he turned distant, our conversations growing lesser, the intimacy fading.
He’d tell me it is all in my mind. That I was being overly dramatic and emotional. He made me promise never to overthink or assume, trying to control my own feelings.
And every time we fought, he’d cut me off. He wouldn’t talk to me, no communication.
And he would never come to me to fix things. I always always had to make the first move to go to him.
He’d be all over social media but seen zone my efforts of fixing things because he said he had better people to talk too, less negative, less annoying.
He’d tell me that he’d prefer to talk to his ex who he knew I was crazily insecure about, because atleast she’s normal, less annoying and dramatic.
He’d tell me things like how I am just a burden on him, how tiring I am to be with, how I am just so hard to love. (He said these things almost every fight).
I would beg.
He told me he hated me. He hated me. That he’d always hate me but oh, the love will overpower the love.
When I say beg, I mean beg.
Apologize over and over through text, beg him beg him to let it go.
Beg him to understand what I meant, where I was coming from, why I felt the way I did or said what I did (it could be something as small as I assumed he was not okay by just asking him why he’s acting really distant).
He’d throw my mental health in my face, calling me crazy, mental. He’s told me before that he now knows why the people in my life always leave me because I am crazy.
But he would never want to hear my explanations, never wanted to see it from my point of view. It was his way or the highway.
I would beg. Over and over. Calling him, crying, begging, screaming.
He’d threaten to cut off all communication if I were to continue annoying him when all I wanted, all I wanted was to fix things but he would say things that trigger me so badly, I would quite literally go mad. I swallowed all the hurt and begged.
I stood in front of him stripped of my pride and ego and self-respect, raw and vulnerable each time.
Only after all the begging I would do, name-calling, guilt-tripping, withholding affection and emotional support, ignoring, indifference, belittling, gas-lighting, lashing out and making me feel like I was worthless, a burden, hard to love, hard to be with… that he was the one being hurt by my stupidity, my tendencies and mental health…. he would let it go.
And suddenly all was good again. Would he apologize? Sometimes. Did he know what he was doing to me by putting me through all that? Yes. Did he care? Sometimes.
Other times, he felt it was necessary for me to learn my lesson in not assuming, not overthinking.
Does he think he is toxic? No, he sees me as the toxic one for having a mental illness, for having been through bullying, abuse in my past, for being ‘crazy’, for having so many issues and being dramatic, overly emotional and sensitive.
Whatever hurtful comments he made in the fights, he says are truth bombs about myself that I cannot seem to face.
It was never him that needed to change, it was me that needed to change.
I never wanted to believe he was toxic and why would I? He loved me, he loved me and I loved him.
We loved with a love more than love. And it was my safe relationship- he’d never leave, he never wanted to break up with me no matter how bad things got so it was safe, so safe and I wanted that so badly, I didn’t want to see it as what it became.
We were happy, we could be happy, we needed each other, the love, the intimacy was there so what more could I want or need?
I had my man. The love, the safety.
But it did become toxic. It did become abusive.
Every fight only broke me further, made me hate myself more (and I already hated myself before I met him) for being me.
For having a mental illness, for having a past full of abuse and bullying. If only I could be perfect.
I gave him everything and more, over and over because I believed with my love, with time, with our love, he’d change slowly.
That he never meant what he said, he said it out of anger. That he never wanted to hurt me, it just happened.
That the hurt he made me feel maybe wasn’t real, maybe I was just being an overly emotional sensitive bitch.
That I needed to work harder at making him happy, that I needed to make myself smaller and smaller because I needed him so badly to love me, to never stop loving me, to finally be happy with who I am.
I told this to myself after and during every fight. And after every fight, things would go back to the Heaven I craved that I would make myself forget the hell. (He would disagree with this and say he was in a worse hell, because he had to deal with me).
But recently… we fought, again. Surprise surprise. And of course, he did not come to me. And this time I decided to wait. 3days. He didn’t come. So I gave him the choice, we either fix things or break up and he said we’d probably not be able to fix anything so I made the decision.
We broke up. After two years.
We made plans for our future, all the amazing times, my home, my heaven, all gone.
And I love him. I am not going to lie and say I don’t love him anymore because thats not how love works.
It hurts, I am lost, I am scared, I am panicky. I don’t know, I don’t think I will ever be able to find love, to find the love I want. I don’t think a man is ever going to love me for me. My crazy, sensitive, clingy, fat, weird self.
But I woke up. I woke up when I realized that… I wasn’t worth it to him, I wasn’t even worth that one step to come to me.
I woke up when a friend asked me, very seriously why I was with him, recently and I told her that he made me feel safe, something I never had at home and he gave it to me, But she told me… “sometimes, it’s the safety net that hurts us the most.” That one line… woke me up and that was all I needed to hear.
I did not deserve what was given to me, what I put up with but I did it for him, for our love. But was it always love? Or was it just me wanting to feel safe for a moment then dying over and over for days?
This is my story of how I didn’t want to believe , how I finally did. How I loved, lost, loved and lost again. How I never wanted to let go but eventually… did.
This is my new beginning, I am hoping. I will cry, bleed, scream, hurt, yearn.
I will take time to build myself up again. I will feel miserable, lonely and unworthy. I will go through high and lows with myself. I will take time to heal.
But I will, I have to.
And I will.
Now.. all I know is.. that if I ever find someone else… I will not settle until he worships me and my very existence because I deserve no less than that, regardless of my issues, of mental health, my overly emotional sensitive self.
I am worthy, I am whole, I am love and I am a force to be reckoned with, always.
All I know now is I will cut off my legs before I walk back to him or any man ever again.