The Death of a 7 Year Relationship
And the last ditch effort that killed it
When
I was working in the ER, we’d often treat a “last ditch effort”. This
was the patient who was, for all intents and purposes, deceased.
Paramedics had been doing CPR for over an hour, or the patient had been
found down with no indication of how long they’d been without a pulse,
or they’d have an injury that seemed far too traumatic to survive. So
we’d roll up our sleeves and try a Hail Mary, which sometimes involved
cracking the patient’s chest open and the trauma surgeon massaging the
patient’s heart back to life. Most of the time it didn’t work, but when
it did, it was enough to keep us going for the next hundred last ditch
efforts.
I
thought a lot about this while driving the 400 miles to my boyfriend’s
school in Northern California. It felt like the thing between us was at
its end and all we were waiting for was for someone to pronounce it
dead. But I stiffened my upper lip and placed my hands on the steering
wheel, telling myself that I would be damned if I didn’t crack that
chest open and massage the heart back to life with my own bare hands.
At
the ER there were patients who seemed to be in perfectly good health
until they encountered the big thing that killed them, like a gunshot
wound or a car accident. Our relationship wasn’t like that; it was like
the 80 year old man who had heart failure and diabetes and cancer and
liver issues and a hell of a lot of luck for living this long. And then
one day he just keels over and dies, and you bow your head and say “he
lived a long, good life, but it was his time.”
But fuck it, I wanted to crack his chest open too.
The
world laughs at you when you only date one person. They think you’re
naive and dumb and should go out there and see what the world has to
offer. But I know what the world has to offer. It’s men in their
twenties who behave like twelve year olds, superficial dating apps where
men don’t favor overweight short Latina women who wear prescription
glasses and list “writing” as a hobby, and people who aren’t as smart or
as funny or as honest as he is. It’s a swamp filled with cheap condoms
and roofies, and I don’t want to wade through it, thank you very much.
My truth is that I will never find anybody as good, and I shouldn’t even
bother.
But
it looks like I’m going to have to. He is a great person, but as far as
relationships go, this one isn’t healthy or sustainable anymore. And if
I don’t want to be alone forever, I’m going to have to face the scary
world and put myself out there at some point. I’m also going to have to
accept the thought of him with someone else: sitting in her car singing
his favorite songs, eating with her at restaurants where we used to eat,
holding her and kissing her and loving her. Him treating her better
than he ever treated me because she’ll be shiny and new to him. But I’m
going to have to grow up and deal with it. Fear of both of us dating other people shouldn’t be the reason I stay in an unhappy relationship.
I
don’t want to leave. He’s my first love. And the truth is I’m never
going to love like this again. I might love in a different way, in a
better way, but I will never have a first love again. That ship has
sailed. And it feels like it took half my body along with it.
But
I can’t go in having already given up. I need to give it that one last
try. So I buy a breakfast sandwich at the crack of dawn and embark on a
six hour journey to get my heart broken in person.
There’s
the kind of breakup that happens in terrible dramatic bursts, plates
smashed, names called, horrible things said. Cheating and betrayal and
deceit. But then there’s the kind of breakup where one person strips
their skin and lays their soul out on the floor, and the other quietly
steps all over it and doesn’t even notice.
“I love you,” he says, monotone, while I stare at him with my arms crossed.
But
what difference does it make? I let him know he’s been emotionally
unavailable and distant for months now. He knows this. I tell him the
simple things I want, extremely simple easy things he can’t find it in
himself to do: to text me at least just a couple times a week to check
in and catch up, to help me plan occasional trips up north (not more
than once an academic quarter) so we can see each other more than just
for 5 days every 60 days, to tell me he’s thinking of me and he misses
me and he misses my brain and my body and some bullshit about my eyes
sparkling. I don’t want expensive gifts or fake mushy “you’re my forever
ever” or a codependent relationship. I just want to feel like I have a
boyfriend. I want to feel wanted. It stings to know he puts more effort
into his run of the mill friendships than he does into a relationship
with me, and it hurts even worse that he’ll readily admit to that but do
nothing to fix it.
He
looks at me and he shrugs as if I just asked him what’s on TV tonight. I
lay out my hurt and insecurities and he says that he is sorry, but he
hasn’t been ready for that kind of thing before and he’s not ready for
it now. By “it” and “that kind of thing,” I mean a loving, healthy,
non-emotionally distant relationship with someone he’s known for a
decade and he’s had as a girlfriend for over a third of his life. I’m at
a loss for words. I know he doesn’t expect me to just roll over and say
“Oh okay, I’ll wait for you to maybe someday perhaps change your
boredom with me so that you can treat me like I’m your girlfriend and I
matter to you.” I hope he doesn’t think that little of me.
I
hate the notion that it’s the woman’s job to keep her man entertained.
It’s pervasive in our society: “Oh, he cheated on her because she
wouldn’t give him oral anymore and the new girl would.” “He left after
the love died when they had 3 kids and he couldn’t be bothered to help
her with parental duties so she had to take on the responsibility of all
3 kids and then he got offended that she stopped having sex with him
because she was so drained at the end of the day.” “She got old so he
left.”
That
being said, I have done nothing to warrant boredom. I have my flaws and
my issues, but at the end of the day I’m fully aware that I’m an
interesting, accomplished, witty and bright woman who is a solid 7/10 in
most light (8/10 in candlelit and 6/10 in fluorescent). I’m far from
perfect, but I’m not some bland blob with no personality. Not that it
matters, but the sex has always been consistently awesome between us as
well. So what the fuck else does he want me to do? Should I grow wings?
And also, what if we stay together and move in and get married and have
kids and pay bills? If he treats me so coldly now that we have no shared
responsibilities, how will he treat me after all that?
I
hate knowing that there’s nothing I can do. Most people would think
that the issue between us is the distance, and maybe the fact that we’ve
been together for 7 years. I can’t change either of those things. But I
do also know plenty of couples who at least act like they’re still
interested in each other after marriage and kids and decades together,
and long distance couples who compensate for the distance by at least
making sure they tell each other “I love you” once a day by text if
they’re both too busy to talk. Meanwhile I haven’t felt like I’m
somebody’s girlfriend in months, even years. And the power is completely
in his hands, to step up and say “I’m sorry, I’ll try” but he can’t be
bothered.
Who
the fuck does he think I am? Does he realize I’m not a moon-eyed 16
year old anymore? Does he know I grew up and I actually am learning to
love myself now? Does he know I’ve listened to the entirety of Beyoncé’s
Lemonade?
I want to leave, but I feel tethered to the spot. I keep thinking over and over, “I don’t want to lose him.” I feel pathetic.
He
has been an excellent friend. He was there when I was struggling, when
family members got sick, when I felt that my life was in pieces. When I
was down, he was always there. He’s been my rock. He’s my best friend. I
couldn’t count on him to do romantic things but I could always count on
him to help when I truly needed him. We grew up together, from two high
school kids to now in our mid twenties. He’s my first love, but there’s
more to that: he’s the first guy I ever went on a getaway with. He’s
the first guy whose apartment I stayed at for a week, and we bought
groceries together and did homey stuff like watch TV while eating pasta
together. He’s the first guy I did grown up stuff with like talk about
our credit scores and shop for a laptop and figure out our life plans
and fine, other grown up stuff. He’s handsome. He’s reliable. He’s a
fantastic fucking person, even if he isn’t the best boyfriend. He’s one
of a kind. We like the same music and TV. My mom loves him. My dog loves
him. Even my readers have grown to love him from the stories I’ve told
about us. He’s B. He smiles at me and my knees still go weak since the
first time I saw him in that high school cafeteria ten years ago. Being
with him has shaped my life. I don’t know where I end and he begins.
I can’t imagine life without him. But life with him is tearing me apart.
And
then I realize. All these memories I have of us being happy are from
over a year ago. The last time he called me “beautiful” was months ago.
The last time I felt loved and appreciated by him was… I don’t know.
So
I tell him this. I tell him I feel unappreciated and worthless and I
can’t go on feeling like this. I ask if there’s a reason he’s so distant
with me: is he mad at me? Did I do something? Is there someone else? Is
this because he’s found everything he needs up here and I’m just down
in LA, an afterthought? He tells me there’s no one else, he’s not mad,
he’s just really comfortable and doesn’t know if he’ll ever change.
Essentially, this is how it’s going to be. I feel dull shock at how
forward he’s being about his resignation toward the relationship, but
I’m not surprised by his honesty. He’s always been honest, even when he
knew it would rip me to shreds.
I
tell him I can’t live like this, and that I feel cornered into either
staying like this or leaving, and that I don’t want to do either. I ask
him what he wants through ragged breaths, trying not to cry but the
tears spilling out my eyes nonetheless.
A
few tears fall out of his eyes too, but he tells me the situation ain’t
changing. He says he wishes he was ready to give me that kind of love,
but he’s not. Good old “it’s me, not you.” The decision is clear to both
of us. It’s time to call it quits.
We
grab breakfast together; I fidget with my meal and he sits, charming as
ever, looking at me sideways and I feel a knife rip into my insides. I
drive him back to his place. We hug, we kiss, me pathetically pulling
him in but knowing deep down that it’s his loss all the while, and as he
grabs his bag from the front seat I blurt out a strangled “I love you,”
and he softly replies “I love you too.” We both know it’s goodbye.
I
pull out of the driveway and start my way down to Los Angeles. I stare
at the rows and rows of cars on the highway, all of us moving at a
snail’s pace. Slowly, achingly slowly, moving onward, my insides hollow
and throbbing with hurt, biting back tears, onto a new life.
Something
died. But now I know that its death is giving life to something
different, something better. And it doesn’t hurt as much.
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