There have been three large grocery bags outside on my patio table for a month. They found their way here from the life I used to lead, placed in my car unmentioned along with the towels I agreed to take.
A month ago I opened the first bag and felt my heartrate skyrocket immediately. I hadn’t planned on coming face to face with mementos from my “wedding” day.
Polaroid pictures, coasters filled with words of advice from guests, cards we received and the glassware I had packed away in 2018. All of this trash staring back at me without any notice it was going to be dropping by.
I can’t count the number of times this whole process has levelled me. I don’t think I could list even half of the emotional swings I’ve been through since August.
Reality is quite often different from the expectation, I think. I expected it to feel different from what it does. I expected it to land differently. I expected there were standards that would be upheld, maybe new ones adopted. I thought I had it all sorted out.
I did not.
I’ve been told a thousand times that expectations are nothing more than unfulfilled resentments but this has been a really clear demonstration of the principle. Things started to go sideways, there was conflict and I stumbled right into the same old patterns of reacting to the way I was being played.
The game didn’t change, you see. The game actually just intensified.
Standing on the rubble of my expectations I found myself wondering what the hell had gone wrong. How could I have misjudged the outcome so profoundly?
How could this be happening?
A voice rose in my mind silencing the rest and asked me plainly why I had thought it was going to be different. In other words, I asked myself to cite my sources for my expectation.
Had I had any reason at all to believe in my utopian dream where my dreams and goals magically aligned with another’s?
Did I have any evidence to support the plan i had outlined in my head?
No, as it turned out. If I had looked at my honest experience up until that point I could have been prepared. If I could not be heard or have needs met historically, why would I expect to achieve this now?
It doesn’t matter how many times I get burnt by overestimating the compassion and understanding of others, I still want to believe. I’m foolishly full of faith.
There is something about losing every ounce of hope, though.
There’s something about having your illusions shattered beyond repair.
Punishing me is one thing.
There were moments last week where I felt like I was far too little to contain the wild emotion inside of me. For three full days all I could do was cling to the earth. I shut down my socials to avoid going scorched earth in my elevated mindset. I worked my own damage control.
The most mature thing I can do is shut up and fuck off. The most sound decision I can make is to take space until the initial spike slows down and I can think clearly again.
I hold so much guilt and responsibility for the things I didn’t fix. I hold so much shame for the strength I didn’t have. I hold so much remorse for excusing things I should have taken a stand on. Not one day goes by I’m not kicking myself for ignoring my gut.
Hindsight often feels wholly unhelpful.
I believe in making amends after I screw things up. The choices I’m making today are designed with this in mind. I can’t go backwards in time and fix what I fucked but I can do the next best thing and unfuck what’s unfuckable.
I can choose differently today and I do.
I got up this morning and I launched myself into unpacking the grocery bags from my ex that have been haunting the patio since the start of the year.
I held in my hands the ashes of the lies I believed were the truth.
I held in my hands the dust of the unkept promises of partnership and togetherness. I looked at the remains of the reassurance and acceptance I kept hoping for and never managing to grasp.
I held my history in my hands and finally saw it for what it really was.
I let myself look at twenty years… beyond the false narratives and the show that was put on for whatever reason.
I held my complete failure in my hands and examined it at a distance and I finally felt the sweet relief of nothing at all.
I’ve spent months reflecting, reliving, revisiting, reviewing. I’ve been inspired, self-assured, scared, lonely and uncertain. I’ve blamed myself and compared myself and wondered if there was anything I should have or could have been that might have spared us from this fate.
The big reveal maybe isn’t so big after all, I guess.
It really boils down to admitting what was true all the time.
Once I had no reason to look for justifications or narratives to enable thoughtless, hurtful behaviour without remorse… I had to admit that none of this was unpredictable. If I had truly looked to the evidence as an indicator of what to expect, this is exactly in line with the experience I am accustomed to.
Thank the Lord.
What a beautiful gift it is to break every last piece of your heart trying to love. What a beautiful thing it is to lose all of myself trying to win a rigged game.
What a gift it is to spend time rediscovering me. What a privilege to create a home for my children.
I could have jumped out of my world and straight into the bed of a stranger, hoping to acquire the comfort I gave half my life not to have.
I could easily craft my new life around my desire to be loved once again. I could stick my head in the sand and pretend romantic involvement will patch up what ails me.
If I wasn’t paying attention to my patterns I could unknowingly spend the rest of my life continuously trying to prove I’m worth loving.
I could do that…
But … Why?
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