Mondays always stood out in my relationship with my ex. He was addicted to diazepam and would take a dozen pills once a week — on a Monday.
Initially, I dreaded Mondays. The diazepam removed all personality from him — he was blank, idle, barely conscious. He would just stare into one spot or watch TV or sleep.
Over time, Monday became my favorite day of the week. Because it was my day off. The one day I didn’t have to worry what he’ll do or what he’ll say.
Every day besides Monday, he drank. Alcohol didn’t put him to sleep. It set him on fire. He became irate, he picked fights — with me, and with random strangers on the street — and while he never hit me, he took great pleasure in tearing me apart emotionally. Every day. Except for Monday. When he would simply stop existing.
This relationship lasted two and a half years. For almost a decade afterward, I still had nightmares about him. And it was always the same nightmare: that he has somehow convinced me to get back together and this brief taste of freedom I had while we were apart was now a distant memory.
That relationship aged me, inhibited me, and made me look for the wrong things in the wrong places just so I can feel “safe.”
But it taught me some things too.
1. Beautiful beginnings are no guarantee
My ex was a poet, pretty popular in his circles for his freestyle, honest, acerbic writing, and as an aspiring writer myself I first connected with him with a sense of admiration.
I was very young — almost 19 years old — and thought he was a true rock star. Imagine my thrill when he took an interest in me, and when I started making appearances in the poems he published online. People kept asking him, “Who’s this mysterious M that has stolen your heart?” By the time he asked me out, I already believed I was living a fairytale.
Now I cringe at this, but for 18-year-old naive me, it was magic. And the narrative of “how we got together” became the glue that kept us together past the first few short months of blind happiness.
All relationships go through good times and rough times. But when the good times only happen once in a relationship and the rough times become the norm, you should allow things to crumble.
An entire relationship cannot be sustained just on how it began and how you felt when it began. You also need to have a sense of a future — one you look forward to.
2. Pain is not supposed to be a comfort zone
My ex got easily irritated by many things, but near the top of the list was my joy.
If I laughed, unless it was at his jokes, I was silly. If I went out to have fun with friends, I was empty-headed. The movies and music I liked, and my taste in just about anything, was stupid. If I had career plans, I was too ambitious and consumed by capitalism. If I shared with him something I read or learned, I was brainwashed.
While we were together, I celebrated 3 birthdays with him. He ruined them all. As in, had-me-sobbing ruined them. On my 19th birthday, he got drunk and told me, very convincingly, that he was going to die soon. I freaked out and tried to find out what he meant. Was he sick? What was wrong? He refused to say, despite my begging and pleading. The next day, he didn’t remember a thing.
By the next birthday, I had already learned to dread celebrations, invitations, get-togethers, anything that involved meeting other people, and alcohol. He was like clockwork. I don’t have a single memory of us going out together and me having a nice time.
He was a miserable man. Misery was home to him. And he wanted me right there too.
Young me fell into the very common trap of wanting to “heal” this wounded person. Instead, I got some of his scars.
Pain is a symptom. It exists so that it grabs your attention and turns it towards what needs healing. Pain is not meant to stay forever — it’s meant to be temporary.
Relationships where one person feeds off the pain of the other are not healthy. When your partner sees you in pain, their instinct should be “How do we heal this?”
3. Codependency is pure poison
Worrying about my ex was the sole pillar of that relationship. He drank heavily, he was on pills, he barely ate. He would get random pains and refuse to see a doctor. He would send me messages throughout the day about how sick he’s feeling and refuse to do anything to take care of himself.
My days were full of endless pleading. “Please eat.” “Please go to the doctor.” “Please take some aspirin.” “Please don’t drink, just for today.” He never listened.
One day, I was riding the bus home from work and overheard a conversation between two men in their 70s. They were holding bags from a pharmacy and talking — with real enthusiasm — about the medicine they need to be taking.
“I need to take this in the morning after a meal. So I wake up at around 8:00 am, cook some breakfast, and then take the pill by 9.”
“Good, good. Well, I’m taking these 3 times a day, and have an alarm set up.”
“Ah, I’ll set up an alarm too. And this one I take in the evening before I watch the news.”
This went on for the entire 20-minute ride. I leaned in to listen closely and felt my heart fill up. I savored every sentence they uttered as long as I could and when I got off at my stop I felt my stomach drop at the thought of who I’m returning home to.
I always found it hilarious that in this utterly miserable relationship, built on pain, loneliness, and self-doubt, the first time I felt the stark contrast between my boyfriend and another man was on that bus — listening to two elderly guys talking about their medicine.
But I felt it. I felt it deeply. The desire to be alive. The desire to go on, as long as you can, whatever it takes. The determined, unshakeable, rock-solid self-care. The enthusiastic attitude.
It was the first time I had a clear “I wish I was with a man who…” thought. I wished I was with a man who wanted to live.
When I broke up with him, my ex pulled all the tricks he could think of. He said I never really cared about him. He said he’s now going to sleep on the streets. He said he’ll start drinking more because of the pain I cause him. Finally, he threatened to kill himself.
In other words, he found different ways of telling me “If you don’t take care of me, I’ll die.” He forced his wellbeing right into my hands. He was my responsibility. And that was the essence of this relationship. My needs and wants never factored in.
…
My ex didn’t die. It’s now 12 years since I left him, and he’s still alive. He didn’t end up on the streets and didn’t try to kill himself.
I don’t know if he’s still an addict. I haven’t had to worry about him for 12 years.
I did have to worry about me, though. A lot. I suffered from serious depression. I suffered from suicidal thoughts. I struggled for years.
I don’t blame the relationship with my ex for all of that but I blame it for taking away from me the notion that I even matter. For convincing me that I am secondary. For making me believe that living in pain is the norm.
Relationships are hard work, we all know that. They can’t be fun and light all the time.
But the question is, where are they taking you?
To a future you crave or a future you dread? To a place where you solidify your sense of self or a place where you dissolve? Is it an adventure? Or a massacre?
A relationship can only live if you are alive in it.
—
This post was previously published on medium.com.
***
You may also like these posts on The Good Men Project:
White Fragility: Talking to White People About Racism | Escape the “Act Like a Man” Box | The Lack of Gentle Platonic Touch in Men’s Lives is a Killer | What We Talk About When We Talk About Men |
—
Photo credit: iStockPhoto.com