I woke up the morning of Valentine’s Day to his message: “I just don’t think I have enough time to talk to anyone right now I’m sorry.”
Unlike other Tinder relationships that had fallen apart, I felt heartbroken over ours. Not only because he picked the absolute worst day, but also because I was so excited about us. On the more serious side, he gave me hope that I could trust men, even though I’d recently experienced sexual assault. On the less serious, but still meaningful side, his text messages had exclamation points and personality, something I value and believe is hard to find.
When others asked me what I wanted in a relationship, he checked off so many boxes. Meeting him made me feel like I’d found a french fry at the bottom of the to-go bag after thinking I’d finished. He made me feel safe, comfortable and attractive — feelings I hadn’t grown totally accustomed to yet.
If I was a pencil, he was a crossword: black and white, but still engaging. Our relationship seemed so easy, and him so straightforward, but I still enjoyed our conversations in person and over text.
But looking back, I think about the nights he spent drunk and throwing up with boys who praised that. I wonder if he threw up my number, my name and our time together too. Was he losing interest in me and gaining interest in stupid games?
We’d had meaningful, exciting interactions, but his interest began to slow. He suddenly became “just so busy.” He told me nothing was wrong, but part of me knew he was either scared or didn’t have the necessary emotional space I now know I deserved.
Our relationship was like milk: nourishing at first, but sour after expiration. I never saw the expiration date, though he apparently had. What had changed? Was he lying about the date, or was I missing something?
Interestingly, he was not only a math major, but a math problem. Too complex and confusing, too much work.
I only like math when it comes naturally to me and I’m getting it right.
Why couldn’t I solve the math problem that he was? I thought he was algebra, but suddenly he was calculus.
I searched his name on social media, looking for answers, trying to figure out who he really was.
I’m not sure now if I’m glad I did, or wish I didn’t. He wasn’t who I thought.
He apparently had a girlfriend he forgot to mention.
After seeing this, I walked into a graveyard and saw our names. I saw not only the day he broke up with me, but the day we met. Had it all been for nothing? Was the good we had found together dead now and gone forever?
I came to the conclusion that while our breakup was probably a good thing, so was our time together. It wasn’t for nothing. Despite the fact he took away my hope in our relationship, he taught me some much-needed lessons.
He taught me I don’t have to be scared of the world; I don’t have to be scared of hairy legs and Axe spray and facial scruff. He taught me that I’m likable, interesting and worthy of respect. He taught me that I’m not always the problem — sometimes the problem is what the other person is dealing with, or the timing.
An earthquake had erupted in my heart that Valentine’s Day, but I had found the glue in which I could begin to start making small repairs. I’m reminding myself that I gave myself the glue, that I climbed my way out and that the only person I have to thank is myself. He had many great qualities, if I can even trust them at this point — but those are qualities he should’ve had, that we all should have, not ones worth praising him over.
My conviction in that has grown, especially considering what he apparently had in mind. And especially considering how he would excite me again and again afterward, sending me messages pretending that he’d changed, that he had time now, that he wanted to relight our fire.
I’m so much happier in love now. I’m glad I finally realized he wasn’t worth it and found something much better. I’m glad I finally left him on read.
I know every lyric to my heartbeat now because I wrote it. I’ve realized more about myself because I stopped being so caught up in him, just another shirt hanging on his clothesline, swaying with the wind.
Olivia Gatwood, a slam poet, explained the phenomenon of being unfazed by unloving men, and it helped me a lot. His inability to love me well is one small piece of a much larger life I have in which I’m both the main character and the author.
Is this what it means to have a full gallon of fresh milk? Is this what it means to not feel bothered by my inability to solve a difficult math problem, or to figure out the problem wasn’t so difficult after all?
Is this what it means to love myself?
If so, I’ll take it. I’ll take it any day of the week.
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Previously published on “Hello, Love”, a Medium publication.
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Photo credit: Allie on Unsplash