Obscurity after the Heartbreak – Part 1

Self-pity doesn’t completely encapsulate how I used to treat myself – perhaps it’s more appropriate to call it self-disgust. I would close my eyes and remember all my past mistakes and I’d shiver with disgust – at myself. I would get goosebumps thinking about the horrendous treatments I allowed, enabled, and excused repeatedly. Once I moved on from mourning the useless relationship, I didn’t wisely get to a place of forgiveness and self-love. Unlike the women I see on social media who experience their “eat, pray, love” phase… that phase of glowing skin, releasing thyself from the shackles of needing a man, and traveling the world and taking stunning pictures … my own post-break up story did not touch the hem of the garment of such stories of redemption. 

It didn’t even occur to me to perhaps spend my new-found singleness discovering happiness. Rather, I decided that since I could not solve the equation of how my outwardly perfect relationship could explode so disastrously, I would spend everyday disparaging myself. After all, I can only control myself. For 50 days straight, I’d wake up and identify a specific instance where I allowed him to debase me. I subconsciously developed a schedule for when these memories would appear to me – right before I step into the shower. The memory would appear, I would spend 10 minutes in bed making sure each part of the scenario was fully fleshed out, and then I’d stew on the role I played while cleaning myself. I’d replay the words spoken, I’d allow my heart to break all over again remembering how I felt, and then I’d spend the rest of the day self-loathing. 

There were some days where these memories did not come at their scheduled time. Some mornings, I was able to function as a normal human being. I’d pretend that I loved myself and even operate as though I actually liked the woman I saw in the mirror. However, this pretense would be violently disrupted by an unlikely reminder. One day, I was experiencing one of these episodes. I woke up and decided to listen to an unusual voice encouraging me to show myself some grace by disrupting my regular self-pity party routine. I found the energy to look attractive – a rare occasion for those times. I even surprised a friend by suggesting an outing at a new restaurant. It seemed I was working towards finding that part of me that enjoyed living. As the work day commenced, I ran into a colleague who was newly injured and sporting a cast. Naturally, I inquired about her injury and the events that led up to it. She provided a long-winded, unsurprising story about being involved in a car accident. There are many parts of this story that a regular person might have paid more attention to – like the fact that it was a four-car collision, most victims suffered concussions, the at-fault driver getting away etc. But not me. No, instead I became toxically fixated on the part of the story where her boyfriend of 3 months abandoned his flight, despite being at the boarding gate, and came to be with her as she dealt with the police on scene. 

Rather than spend time being relieved and excited for her about surviving a car crash, I found myself becoming angry at life, at her boyfriend, and then at myself. One year prior to the ending of that relationship, I was also the victim of a chaotic car accident. I had pestered him to accompany me to the car dealership because I was still quite nervous about driving alone. I pleaded with him desperately. I even went as far as reminding him of the scarring accident I experienced as a child. He wasn’t busy that day. He had no obligations. But how could he break his selfish pattern by putting my needs ahead of his? So I ventured to the car dealership, embodying the persona of a woman well-versed in cars. Throughout the process, I dreaded the hour where all documents would be signed and I’d have to commemorate my new car ownership by driving the car off the lot alone. Most people would grumble at the lengthy paperwork associated with purchasing a vehicle, but I was thankful for the many hours spent. I texted him repeatedly asking if he would have a change of heart and accompany me. These pleas went unanswered. 

After snapping out of the trance that sent me down this painful memory lane, I’d move on to wondering: but why weren’t his grave sins grave enough for you to walk away? What makes you hate yourself this much that someone would treat you less than and you’d still stay?

I’d love to report that I found my way to a path of self-love, but I cannot. Unfortunately, this is a story of how I missed the chance for love because I was incapable of recognizing it when it was freely given to me.