January 4, 2020 was one of the worst days of my life. It’s something I’ve told very few souls about because I was so ashamed and so hurt by the series of events that transpired. The man I thought I was going to marry and live happily ever after with walked through our kitchen that Saturday morning and told me he was going to run an errand. He said he would be right back.
In hindsight, it very much looked like a scene out of a movie where the guy says he has to go get milk and never comes back; except in my case, the errand was returning the wedding band he’d bought for me at Tiffany’s. He was planning on breaking up with me when he got home from said “errand.” We’d just driven over 1,500 miles the week prior to visit his family for Christmas . . . but for whatever reason, it was better to break up with me right after the holidays and not before.
Our original wedding date would have been June 27, 2020. The wedding invitations were being addressed. I’d already purchased my wedding dress. My best friend was in the process of planning my bachelorette and had already ordered all of the decorations. I think we’re going to use them for hers later this year (lol).
Sitting here right now, a year later, it doesn’t feel right to bitch and moan about how some guy dumped me *yet again* because he realized I wasn’t what he wanted anymore. Because he tried . . . for nine months we fought for that relationship (amidst a pandemic, mind you) until he finally called it quits for good and went on a boys’ trip the weekend of what would’ve been our rescheduled wedding date in September.
We tried a lot of things to make it work, but at the end of the day, it didn’t, and that’s okay. January seems to be the month boys realize they don’t want to date me. Jokes aside, since we broke up for good, it’s been all sorts of falling apart over here. Some days are just dandy and I feel like I’ve had enough time to deal with everything. Other days, like a few nights ago, I bawled my fucking eyes out during a zoom yoga class. I cried so damn hard I could only hear the instructor when I came up for air between cries. It must’ve been something about the late night vinyasa flow and my younger dog going bat shit crazy while I was trying to find some zen that brought on the waterworks.
Lately I’ve been trying to embrace the mess that is almost eight years of serious relationships, broken promises, and a heap of trust issues I’ve been slowly untangling in therapy. Sure, I’m a stronger, wiser, whatever person because of these relationships, but I also feel like with every heartbreak, a piece of me literally withered away and died. I no longer have that doe-eyed optimism that once believed she could make any relationship work with enough love and tenacity. I’ve come to the realization that you might love someone with every fiber of your being and that still isn’t enough for them to want to stick around. I’ve joked recently with friends that my mantra for relationships moving forward is: leave before being left . . . because if you don’t, they will.
I don’t always feel so jaded, but some days that’s just how it feels because you invest your whole being into someone else, only to wake up one day and they have to run an errand that will forever alter the trajectory of life as you know it. I spent a good part of those nine months mourning what I felt would be an inevitable loss, so in a way, it’s been a year-long breakup. By other measurements, it’s only been a few months.
However you do the math, it’s been a lot of pain and a lot of hurt . . . but I don’t hate him for it. Pissed and angry, sure? But who wouldn’t be after making a house a home, adopting a dog together, and going through all the nonsense that was wedding planning prior to (and during) COVID-19. In all honesty, if I ever find someone I’d remotely consider throwing my legal autonomy to under the guise of “happily ever after,” I don’t think I’d plan a big wedding again (assuming this whole pandemic thing gets a handle of itself and gatherings of any kind can occur).
To be perfectly honest, I’d rather take the tens of thousands of dollars and do something fun and send everyone a postcard . . . or just throw a big party with some of my nearest and dearest . . . or maybe just not get fucking married at all, because that kind of commitment seems to be a surefire way to end up single. But as I’ve been so aptly reminded, it’s better to be a single pringle than navigating the legal mess that is divorce, especially with how congested and backlogged courts are right now.
I don’t know . . . it’s been a wild year, and I wasn’t even sure I wanted to write about this . . . but then I remembered why I started this blog, when I had zero subscribers and not a single follower; I wrote for me. I wrote to heal and to get the words that were bubbling through me out into existence . . . because once you expel that into the universe, it can no longer weigh you down . . . or at least that’s the hope.
So this is my truth about one of the worst days of my life. When I realized that the person I loved more than anyone or anything else in the entire world could leave me, even after all that we had promised to one another and built together, I think everything came full-circle.
In the relationship that preceded this one, I often thought “if only we’d been engaged, then he wouldn’t have left,” but time showed me otherwise . . . and I think that despite the seemingly bottomless abyss of pain this latest breakup has rendered, it was the most valuable lesson I have learned thus far in my time here on this earth.
Nothing is guaranteed.
Not even tomorrow.
But that’s okay, because maybe knowing everything can change without warning on an unassuming Saturday morning, we’ll live bolder and speak kinder and soak in all of the little moments we’ll come to miss when those things change . . . because that seems to be the only guarantee, change.
So cheers to change. I have a good feeling about what’s to come in 2021. Hopefully it’s a little (or a lot) less crying over zoom yoga and more laughing crying with friends and loved ones when we can finally gather in person again . . . but until then, maybe there’s some good in taking the time to talk about our really low moments, because I know I felt terribly alone navigating mine. I spent many an evening crying on the pavement hoping my tears would somehow wash over and swallow me whole. . . but they didn’t . . . and I didn’t die of a broken heart, either.
So it does get better, just not all at once, and certainly not by bottling it all up and hoping it’ll get better on its own. I could not have imagined what the last 365 days would have been like, and I hope that in 365 more, I can look back at this post and find gratitude in what truly felt like one of the worst days of my life, thus far.