Читать книгу Untangling - Emma Grace - Страница 11

Things had been different for a few days. Suddenly. Unexpectedly. You know—I’ll just say it came from completely out of the blue. And from where I sat, nothing had happened. We hadn’t been fighting, there were no big life events plaguing us, we didn’t have things we were “working through,” there was no—anything—that would explain what had changed. Or why. And to be honest, the change wasn’t anything I could quite put my finger on, exactly—I guess you could just call it a change in energy.

Now, side note—I’m firmly convinced that some people can just sense things. Call it a gut feeling. Call them empaths. Call it plain old intuition. But whatever it is—sometimes it’s a helpful superpower. And others, it’s just not. When you feel things like that, you can often sense something happening before the person feeling it is even aware they are feeling it. And trust me, that is not always an easy thing to wrestle with. You flip-flop back and forth between talking about it and making it real—or not talking about it, and letting it eat you up inside.

But anyway, something about how his eyes caught mine just seemed—off. Like he was hiding something. And what seemed crazy to me, is this change appeared right after some of the best times we’d spent together. When the rest of the world disappears and it’s just you and that other person standing in time. When words are said that bubble up feelings of yes and trust and maybe this is how it’s supposed to be. Those are the times you can’t see it coming. Endings. Because your eyes are completely clouded with the beginning or the middle of what you hope and pray is your incredible love story.

I thought we had been really good at communication, and so I figured he would let me know when he was ready. So, I gave him time.

He pulled back slowly. First it was the delay in responding. Then it was the wishy-washy level of commitment that settled more in the maybe zone than the outright yes or no zone. Then it was his tone. I remember asking him over the course of a week or so if everything was alright. And rather than opening up about whatever it was that was bothering him, he started to snap a little.

“You always ask me that. You always think something is going on.”

Now, just another little side note here: I’m also firmly convinced that when people use the word always, there is usually always something actually going on. Always is a word that comes from a place of frustration. A word we use as an amplifier—to strengthen and intensify a point we are usually trying way too hard to make.

Anyway, him pulling back, coupled with the lack of any substantive communication about why, is where I knew something was really wrong.

And I guess that’s the place we all start measuring, isn’t it? Once we feel that something is happening—especially in the absence of any concrete information telling us why—we start hyperfocusing on every single little detail. And we collect these details from every interaction we have—or every lack of interaction—while we try with everything we’ve got to figure out what is happening before it actually happens. We start paying attention to how long it takes that person to respond to messages they used to immediately respond to. Whether they answer on the first or ninth ring. Or not at all. We are constantly sensing whether the connection is still there that used to carry us. And the longer we go without those things—or with fundamental changes in those things—the more we get in our own heads.

And overthinking is a dangerous game. Because that’s the place the chaos starts.

When we get into that spin of overthinking and overanalyzing, then we also change how we act in (or react to) a situation. We don’t see that part happening, of course, because we’re just focused on what the other person is doing. And how that is affecting us. But when we change how we act; they change how they act. And it’s a vicious cycle. Where one side is contributing to the other, and the spinning just keeps getting faster and faster and faster until we have each created a story about what is happening, and why.

A story we haven’t communicated to each other.

A story that is likely very far from the real truth.

A story that, with each word we write, cracks a little more of the foundation we have spent so long building our love story on.

Anyway, the point came where I couldn’t wait to figure it out anymore. So, I called him. I was kind. Genuine. Not argumentative. And he was—immediately cold. Like, cold in a way I’d never seen in him before. Still thinking this was something we could work through, I explained that things had felt different, and I wasn’t sure why. I asked if he felt it too. I tried to get him to talk to me—I mean, we’d spent hours and hours talking about everything we could in this life. Even communication itself, and how incredibly hard it could be when things actually did get hard.

“I guess so,” he confessed. “I mean, we haven’t talked as much as usual.”

I ask him again to tell me what is going on. He reverts back to diversion.

“You always think something is wrong. Nothing is wrong.” (See what I mean about always?)

I calmly point out that there is clearly something wrong because we’d never spoken like this to each other before.

“Things are fine,” he snaps. “They’re fine.” (Uh-oh. Fine. The other danger word.)

“Can we meet up tonight? Talk about this in person?” I ask.

When

you overthink,

you change how you

act in, or react to, a situation.

And when you change how you act—

they change how they act.

And that is how the

spinning begins.

He mumbles something about being tired and “not wanting to get into all this right now,” (All this?) but agrees to meet up. In my mind, we were going to see each other and talk through this thing that was happening that I didn’t understand and seemed to have no apparent cause. In my head, things were going to be ok.

Things were not ok.

He met me in the courtyard near my house. He was leaning against a concrete wall, and when he saw me walking toward him, he turned his head away. Away. He had his arms folded across his chest protectively—closed off. All I can say is—it was really, really surreal. Weird, even. I know, not quite an eloquent phrase for a writer, but, alas. I mean, I guess I was still expecting him to be him. The person I thought I knew so well. The person that just days ago was talking about us and trust and how excited he was for the future. The person whose eyes had started to feel like home. And I’m telling you, there was none of that there. None of it. And it’s almost cliché to say, but when I tell you he looked like a stranger, I cannot stress it enough. I literally did not know the person I was looking at.

I walked up to him and he looks at me.

I force a smile. “Can I get a hug?” I ask.

He doesn’t say anything, but stands up like it takes all the effort in the world. And he one-arm hugs me. (Ugh). I remember searching his eyes in that moment and silently pleading with him to open back up. To look like the person who had been my person just days ago.

That person was not there.

As we walked down the street, I could sense that all around me, people were heading excitedly into their Friday evenings. And then there was me. Walking next to a stranger.

I had been cast into some parallel universe where everything was falling apart at a time I had thought things were finally all coming together. I was walking next to a stranger that used to hold my hand. That used to laugh with me. That just the Friday before—was telling me I could trust him. And I should. But this stranger—he was responding to my sentences with one-word answers. For every question I asked, I got nearly silence. He literally offered nothing as input or answers or reasons. And the longer I looked at this person I had known so well—that I thought I had truly cared about—the longer it took to see him. Who was this? This closed-off, cold, passive-aggressive anchor that was dragging us both down at the same time?

We stopped walking and sat on these cold gray stairs on this side street in my neighborhood that I don’t think I’ll ever look the same way at again. During the first part of the conversation—if you can even call it that—he did really well to hold up the “You always read into things” and “nothing is wrong” story. But as time ticked by, he admitted that “maybe he’d been thinking about some things,” and “maybe he just didn’t know anymore.”

My. Absolute. Most. Favorite. Break. Up. Lines. Ever.

Now. I feel like, in hindsight, this was a learning moment. So I’ll tell you—when someone doesn’t know how they feel, then I’m sorry, love, but the answer is no. Unequivocally. Totally. No. I think most of us realize that in the rational part of our brains. But when we’re in the midst of the I can’t believe this is happening moment, we don’t always act with self-respect at the forefront of our decision making. It’s human.

I started getting frustrated with his lack of contribution to the conversation. His coldness. And so anger begins to take over the place concern used to be.

“So are you telling me your feelings have changed completely in a matter of—days? Because I’m pretty sure a few days ago, you were the one pulling me forward.”

He mutters another “I don’t know.” And like—completely shuts down. I sat there looking at this person and it honestly felt like I was living someone else’s life. I remember asking over and over, out loud and to myself, what is happening right now? I just totally didn’t understand where all this was coming from. So suddenly. So completely without some sort of catalyst that I could identify. Something to—make sense of it all.

But something clearly had changed for him.

And I don’t think I will ever know what it was—because despite all the words he had said about how much this had meant to him; this person didn’t even think I deserved the respect of an explanation. After a few more questions from me, followed by a few more one-word passive-aggressive answers from him, he stood up, and said, and I quote, “I’m done. I’m out.”

And he walked himself away from me. No goodbye. No looking back.

Just left me sitting on those cold concrete steps.

And this is the part that is hard to write, especially when I spend my life talking to you about the importance of self-respect. But I’m going to write it anyway. I’m going to tell you. And I’m going to do it because I promised you I’d be real.

I was so incredibly shocked by what was happening and still not understanding any part of the why—that I got up and I walked after him. I walked after the man whose back was facing me as he walked away from all the words he said he’d meant. The man who had offered me nothing in the conversation. Who had ended a relationship with “I’m out.” (What is that?) I walked after the man who was burning something down with no kindness and no maturity and absolutely no respect. I totally should have had some witty have a good life comment. I totally should have picked myself up and walked bravely in the opposite direction with my head held high.

But, I didn’t—and I give myself a pass for that. Because I cared about him. And I was confused. And frankly, yes, hurt and not ready to let it all go. Especially when I didn’t understand it.

I called his name. And—he literally did not even turn around.

I called it again. No response.

I walked faster.

When I caught up to him, I linked my arm with his in an effort to slow him down—and asked one final time. “What is happening right now? Why are you doing this? Why won’t you just tell me what is going on?”

His arm stiffened and he looked at me again coldly—and just said one last time—“I have nothing else to say. I’m done. I’m out.” And that man got in his car, slammed the door, and left me standing there watching him drive away.

If they don’t know how they feel—

then I’m sorry, but the answer is no.

And that is how it ended. Like that.

Now, just for context, I’m going to give you some additional details. I’ve been in my fair share of relationships. Most of them have lasted years. This one was not even close to that. We weren’t married. We didn’t live together. We didn’t have kids or joint bank accounts. And I guess that’s why it’s sort of ironic that something like this—like him—could prompt me to write an entire book. But life is like that, isn’t it? And since love is not some neat little mathematical equation—it doesn’t really have to make sense, does it?

I tell you this because I want you to know that how long you are together doesn’t really much matter, other than to predict how many knots there will be left to untangle in the end. And I want you to know that—while our experiences are generally unique, we are not. Humans are so very much the same at the core—especially when it comes to love and loss. A relationship can be short and intense—or it can be long and intense. And intense can mean good things. Or bad things. Relationships can fizzle out quickly—or slowly unravel over the course of an entire decade. They can be complicated. Or perfect. Or confusing. They can move fast. Or so incredibly slow. And sometimes, they can be all of those things at once.

So maybe you’re dealing with a broken heart you got from your high school sweetheart. Maybe you’re breaking up after three months. Or three years. Or maybe, even three decades. Maybe you’re sitting there, alone, looking at this world and not recognizing it at all—because without them, you have truly known no other life. Or maybe you’ve been trying to leave for years—knowing it wasn’t healthy but couldn’t quite let go. Maybe it was kids. Or finances. Or family. Or health. Or—one of a million other really complicated reasons I’m not even going to pretend to understand. The nuances are always going to vary, love, but I think the rest of it—the feelings part? Those are mostly the same. And that’s the part I want to explore.

How you felt. And what you did with all that.

Anyway—just to round out this story, I need to share how it really ended. The next morning (like, less than twelve hours later)—when I was still reeling from what had happened and thinking he’d definitely call to say he’d made a mistake—he was already back on the dating site we’d met on. (Yes, I checked. Yes, dating apps are the bane of everyone’s existence. Yes, we are all still hoping we’ll run into the person of our dreams in the broccoli aisle.).

And this is the world we’re supposed to find love stories in. This is how someone who said they cared about me responded to—um, I still don’t even know what happened. Maybe it was something I did but will never know. Maybe something crazy was going down in his life that he just couldn’t share with me. But I’ll tell you—no matter what the reason was, I keep going back to one simple truth. He could have chosen to talk to me about it. And he didn’t.

And that is what grounds me right now.

**

So this is the moment it all starts. The untangling. And I tell you all those little details because I want to be real with you. I promised I’d be real with you. I mean, I almost want you to feel like you just read a part of my diary. Or you overheard me talking to my best friend. And I want you to feel that way because I know that self-help books sometimes have a stigma. And maybe the reason that stigma develops is because most of the time, they can seem sort of, textbook. Cold. Hard to apply.

And it probably doesn’t help that generally, when we arrive at the place where we actually need self-help books, things are already tough. We’re already struggling. And so when we start reading, we find the do this and try that doesn’t really come with any significant context about how it all feels. In the beginning. In the middle. When we haven’t quite figured out how to heal or grow. And we’re just treading water in the middle of a hurricane trying our best not to drown. So the way I see it, maybe we don’t need the roadmap as much as just the validation that it’s ok to feel the way we do.

However that is. At the beginning of the growth journey.

So, let me just start by telling you what I know you need to hear. Everything is going to be ok. It will be. I promise. And I also want you to know that one day you’re going to forgive yourself. For what you did. Or didn’t do. For how you feel. Or didn’t feel. We all make mistakes, love. We all act with our hearts first. We all hold on a little too long and a little too hard sometimes. And sure—we all eat a few lies when our hearts are hungry. That’s just how it works.

And look—I know my story isn’t your story. I also know that some of you will read this and say—she thinks that was hard? Please. And you know, I’m going to give you that freedom to decide how you will judge my story. Well—at least the part I’m sharing. But I honestly hope that’s not the angle you’ll take. Because how we get there is not the story I’m writing. It’s the beginning of the story I’m writing. And truth be told, the how is always going to be different. I mean, like we just talked about—maybe you got completely blindsided by someone you thought was your forever. Maybe you know exactly why it ended. Maybe you could have fixed it, but didn’t want to. Maybe you contributed to it—or it was outright your fault. Maybe it happened so slowly you didn’t even see it until it was already done. Maybe you’re coming out of a twenty-year marriage or emerging after your very first breakup. And I’m not going to pretend to know the details of what you’re carrying, love. But I do know that, unfortunately, most of us are going to experience a whole bunch of different kinds of endings. Some that will make sense. Others that just won’t. And whether we have all the information we need to understand, or we don’t, the next step is always the same.

Figuring out how to move forward without the need to go back.

And maybe that’s just one of those great simple truths. One that takes a lifetime to really understand. But the way I see it? Moving forward is that beautifully complex art of what we choose to do after we learn something we never really wanted to know in the first place. It’s how we teach ourselves to walk alone again, without the hand that spent so long holding ours next to us. It’s choosing to feel it rather than finding something to avoid feeling it. It’s teaching ourselves to look back at what happened. And learning from it—but not lingering on it. Not dwelling on it. Not burying it. And I’ll tell you, love, mostly—it’s what we choose to tell ourselves about what we learned in the days and weeks and months that come after.

Because that is where what we went through gets its label as a lesson. Or as a scar.

And that is the real story. What we do with what happens to us.

So, no matter how you got here, here you are. At the place where the healing begins.

**

Moving forward

is that beautifully complex art

of what we choose to do

after we learn something

we never really wanted to know

in the first place.