We Have to Stop Whitewashing Past Relationships or Risk Romanticizing Toxic Behaviors

I was always good at building a daydream. An imaginative child, I was never lacking in a playmate. I had imaginary friends and a beautiful inner world I could visit at will. I suspect I was always like this, and early childhood trauma only made it more likely that I would look for an escape in fantasy. For a long time, it was such a lovely coping skill that I didn’t see the inherent danger of living too long in the realm of fiction.

The danger became apparent as I got older.

My relationships were never quite what I wanted. They felt more like uneasy situationships that required the sacrifice of myself to work at all. My self-esteem was a fragile, ephemeral thing, and I used my inner world to supplement reality. I could romanticize anything, and I did.

I stayed too long in relationships that never really worked for me, but required all my effort. I made promises, and I wanted to keep them. Yet, every time I counted the cost, I was the one sacrificing everything.

There was a period of solitude and healing that I desperately needed. By the time I met the next partner, I was ready. I wouldn’t settle. My standards were high, and my self-esteem had grown strong.

This time, I felt like my romantic fantasies had come to life.

It was more than I dreamed was possible. For the first time, I felt seen and loved. I wasn’t having to explain away behaviors with flimsy excuses that never held up under inspection. This was a good match for me, and I could tell because it made me my very best self rather than some poor facsimile of me.

When the relationship eventually ended, I was bereft. I didn’t understand how something that felt so right could end. For a long time, I romanticized the connection. It fed my daydreams and kept hope alive.

On the surface, that doesn’t seem problematic. But sometime between that first flush of love and the later fading, I had started hiding little pieces of myself. The beginning of that relationship was beautiful and true and real and loving. But later, it was disconnection and avoidance and uncertainty and an ache of longing for what had been. I kept holding on to the former without fully accepting the latter.

It would be easy to romanticize this aspect of my past — and I did, for a long time — but there’s a real danger in that. By whitewashing history and making it what we wish it would have been, we skip right over the lessons we’re meant to learn.

Looking back, I know I should have left when the relationship shifted into what it would become. I should have acknowledged that it wasn’t working for me anymore. Frankly, I truly should have had an honest conversation about what it felt like for me to experience this uncertainty while dealing with the onset of a chronic illness. When I asked for reassurance and was rebuffed, I should have taken that as an answer instead of spinning it into a fairy tale of future hope.

Some people do the opposite of whitewashing the past.

They wipe out all the good, leaving only the awful aspects of the relationship. They turn a failed relationship into an epic nightmare, even if there were truly good parts in the mix. Either extreme bypasses our ability to learn the lesson. As long as we focus only on the good or only on the bad, we cannot see ourselves or anyone else clearly.

For a long time, I thought that admitting to the hard parts of that relationship would somehow negate the very real and romantic parts. I didn’t want to lose them. They were the only ones I had. I wanted to keep the memory of a hand meeting mine and sending shock waves through my soul. I wanted to hold close the laughter and intimacy that meant the world to me. I finally realized that I could keep every memory, but I didn’t need to redact the uncomfortable ones to do it.

I had to take a close look at the areas that hurt most.

In doing so, I saw places where my boundaries needed to be stronger. I also recognized how well I had learned to communicate — to a point. I also figured out that there were still ways in which I’d shut down when I felt rejected. There were parts of myself that I put away because I was afraid to show them. When I encountered uncertainty about the relationship, I played it safe because I was afraid to lose what I had — even though I was losing it already.

Through the healing process, I began to have a broader perspective of what had happened. I had to admit that developing a chronic illness had not helped at all. Not only was I dealing with a lack of reassurance in the relationship, but I was also dealing with symptoms that made it hard to think rationally about what was happening. Every two weeks of my Premenstrual Dysphoric Disorder (PMDD), I would experience heightened rejection sensitivity, a lack of impulse control, mood swings, insecurities, and a handful of harrowing physical symptoms. Before I found an effective treatment, I was subject to my own internal rollercoaster, which I suspect took a toll on the relationship.

For a little while, I wanted to romanticize this as well. I wanted to tell myself that if I hadn’t gotten sick, it would have all been okay. But the truth is that my illness was only part of a larger equation. Had the relationship been healthier, I might have received more support and understanding during the times I was symptomatic and desperately looking for a treatment that worked. Because the relationship wasn’t as strong as it should have been, my chronic illness only added to the other cracks that were already there.

When I stopped romanticizing the connection, I was able to find perspective and peace. I didn’t need to keep running the relationship arc through my head to find out where it all went wrong. I just accepted that it did. It didn’t cancel out the romance that existed or the very real fact that I loved someone who didn’t love me — and kept loving him long after he was gone. But it did help me to look back without the rose-colored glasses to see that there were things I learned about myself that will help me be healthier in future relationships.

I’m a big believer in offering apologies where they are needed.

When I mess up, I ‘fess up. So, I wrote a long and likely-unwanted email to my ex to share what I had learned in the process of healing. It felt necessary to me at the time — not to give myself closure but to hold myself responsible for my part in our relationship story.

I was not the beauty to his beast. We were both flawed, and I know that the ending hurt us both. I took responsibility for my part, and even though it did not save the friendship, I can have peace that I did what I knew was right.

Sometimes, I miss the fantasy of “us”. I miss the romanticized idea of what we were (and could have been). But that fantasy cost me a lot of sleep and peace.

So, I tell myself a truer story.

It will never be fully true — it can’t when we only have our own perspective to tell it. But I tell my truth: I loved, and it was beautiful. I lost, and it was heartrending. No one was to blame. Sometimes, beautiful things break.

My boundaries are better now. I’m still working on communicating when my whole soul just wants to shut down. I haven’t yet been brave enough to try to connect with another soul like I did before — but that’s probably because I haven’t met anyone who could meet me where I am now. I hope, if that ever happens, I will try to be vulnerable even in the face of my fear. Especially then.

I try to find the balance in the stories I tell myself. There are (usually) no good guys and bad guys. Just people doing their best and sometimes failing. We live, and we love, and if we try at all, we’re going to get hurt. But we also get to heal.

I don’t need rose-colored glasses, and I don’t need to throw entire relationships in the trash. I can look back and have a little better perspective with the benefit of hindsight. I can tuck a few romantic memories close to my heart, and they don’t have to be tarnished by the rest of it. I can romanticize my whole life, but I don’t need to whitewash anything to do it anymore.

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This post was previously published on medium.com.