When my ex-boyfriend Luke* and I finally split up, I felt free. Even just a week out of the relationship, the lightness I felt was indescribable. My anxiety was gone. My back wasn’t sore because my whole body was no longer constantly clenched up. The physical changes were like night and day.
We’d been together on and off for two years, after meeting through mutual friends. He was fun, funny, and, as everyone used to say, obsessed with me. I felt like I was being loved properly and seen for who I am for the first time. But it was always chaotic. Even at the beginning, it was very stop-start. Towards the end, we’d been breaking up and making up for a good six months. By then, I knew something was amiss and that I wasn’t happy, but it felt easier and less scary to be with him than without him.
We used to say we ran in nine-month cycles, so the first three months were solid and the last six were hell. I lived on my own, but he felt entitled to just turn up, even if I’d said he couldn’t come round. If I didn’t respond immediately, I’d get a barrage of texts about how much I didn’t love him. If I dropped a kiss on a text, that would start off another argument. A lot of the problems stemmed from jealousy: of the social circle I had, my personality, my humour, my ability to talk to anyone. He didn’t have any of that, and so I was his constant. It was a very codependent relationship — on both sides. But if I went out to see friends, he’d kick off. ‘Why aren’t I invited? It’s not fair that you get to go out and I don’t.’ It got to the point where I just stopped seeing friends; I stopped talking to people because it wasn’t worth the fight. It was easier to keep the boat stable rather than rocking it.
0 comments:
Post a Comment