#ktastrophe

Hi, Internet. It’s me, Kate. I broke up with my boyfriend of 10 years. The first but not quite only person I’ve ever been with. It was kind of a slow realization of everything that has been wrong with our relationship for all of these years. At first he was sad but agreed with me. He seemed obsessive and nearly bipolar for a while, and I freaked out, but didn’t let him know that. I’m realizing how toxic we were together, mostly him to me. My head was sort of a creeping torrent of all the bad things he’s ever said that I’ve never really forgotten. How if I’ve been so loved for all of these years, why is my mental health and self esteem so incomparably shitty? I’m still timid and shy, shouldn’t a healthy relationship have made that better? He made me feel bad about myself like all the time, but I didn’t even know it. I’ve never had a single healthy relationship other than a few friends I have now that have been supporting me through this. And several of them have apparently realized that this relationship has been really bad for years. Several of them said he was abusive, and I couldn’t wrap my head around it. Weeks later, I realize these few wonderful people in my life were right. It was an emotionally abusive relationship.

One of those friends let me come over for the night while it was all going down. I had spring break at the school I work at, so it was the weekend before I had an entire week off work. There were supposed to be other people coming over for my “I need to talk about this and get drunk night”, but one bailed and the other had homework. They’re supportive but have their own stuff to deal with. My one friend and I talked, ate, drank, and played games until I fell asleep. There was a lot of ranting on my part. Both of us went to sleep. Then neither of us could actually sleep and we kept talking and drinking and chilling all night. He offered to let me stay in his spare bedroom for a few months without paying for it. I did the same for him a few years back and the boyfriend just barely went along with it, I think. And of course as I write this I realize that I felt like I would owe my friend somehow for doing this for me. Shit, I am so fucked up.

I took him up on the offer. I went back to the apartment I shared with the boyfriend, our cat, and a roommate, and told him I was moving out. He freaked. I retained the robotic calm I’ve developed over 20-some years with depression. People are seriously 100% correct about mental illness making you stronger and better at dealing with things. You should see me in an emergency, my anxiety is suddenly useful instead of terrifying and debilitating.

I spent three days packing. They were excruciating. He kept imposing himself on me to talk about the break up. Once he woke me up to talk. I’d been sleeping on the couch for a week. I shouldn’t have felt bad about leaving, but deep down I have been guilt-tripped so much it’s a compulsion to feel bad when I do anything self-serving. So he woke me up, showing me pictures from when we were sixteen and just started dating. He remembered good things. All I can see is bad now. Eventually I got my shit and he even wants to help me move. I let him. He wished I was sad about the break up. I’m still sad I didn’t do it sooner. I was his lifeline, anchor, whatever. I took care of him and propped him up and he just made me feel bad about myself. He leaves crying after my stuff is in the spare bedroom. I tell my friends who helped me move I needed a moment.

See, this all started when I began realizing at various times that I had no privacy. First, I think, when I went on a trip around Europe with my mother. Jesus fuck this post is long. Anyway, I’ve mentioned before that my mom and I are completely incompatible polar opposites. And she made all of the travel arrangements. Long story short, had a great goddamn time when she wasn’t there. Hated every moment we were together. But we had to share a room. Most of the time, a bed. And the bitch never once realizes that her introverted as fuck daughter with Generalized Anxiety Disorder might have a motherfucking problem with this. About 2 weeks in, I finally understood what was bothering me. Four weeks later, I hadn’t been alone in a month. And my personal preference is… to be all by myself.

When I was a little girl, there were two things I wanted. The first was to write. I didn’t do that for years, but hey, doing better, right? I don’t think I felt like anyone would care what I had to say, because in my experience, no one did. I let people convince me to do other things. I shouldn’t have  listened to a goddamn word my mother said, but she convinced me to go to art school somehow. My boyfriend was a different version of the same kind of abusive as my mom. That second thing I wanted? To be completely independent.

As a kid, I wanted to live by myself. I wanted people to stop telling me what to do. I didn’t want to pretend to be part of a normal, happy family. I didn’t want to be in or have a family. I think all I ever wanted was for the only person I would be able to listen to was myself. I’m not sure that’s a sentence, but it’s correct in it’s own right. I never got the things I wanted. I fell in love with a boy I had a lot in common with who was funny, but didn’t take shit from anybody. I let him do the talking. I let him do the things that were hard for me. And ten years later, I woke the fuck up.

The second I shut that door in the spare room I now live in, I screamed “I AM ALONE IN A ROOM WITH THE DOOR CLOSED!” And I laughed. I was so happy. I’d just made a man I used to love very sad, but I was excited. I get to pick everything I ever do from this point on, I thought. No one can tell me what to do. I’m alone, and independent, and happy as a pig in mud.

My friends got it. They’re proud of me for this. I’m proud of myself. But that’s not the end of the break up story. On the other hand, this post is long and has been good but exhausting to write. So like the fanfiction I’m back to writing, this chapter shall be a two parter. Stay strong, fellow denizens of the internet.