Alex kept telling me, “Stop replying.” And I kept replying. If you tell me I did something I didn’t do, I’m going to defend myself. If you tell me I’m lying when I know I’m telling the truth, I’m going to explain it seventeen different fucking ways because some part of my brain still thinks if I explain it correctly enough, you’ll finally understand me.
I tried so hard to be honest and transparent. I told him I went on a date. I told him we kissed. I told him how I knew him, when we started talking, all of it. I answered questions I didn’t even owe answers to because I don’t want to be someone who hides shit. But none of my answers mattered. Going on one date meant I “jumped into something.” Knowing someone fifteen years ago meant apparently he’d been “waiting in the shadows.” Apparently I’d wanted someone else for years. Apparently I wanted our relationship to end so I could do this. “Be honest.” I fucking was.
And somehow me going on a date after our relationship ended became evidence that everything before it was a lie. That I didn’t want his attention. That I wanted someone “better.” That I gave up first. That I was somehow just as bad as him. No. I can acknowledge where I failed in our relationship. I know I wasn’t perfect. I know I withdrew and stopped being myself. But taking accountability for my shit does not mean accepting responsibility for shit I didn’t do.
I waited eight and a half years to be his wife. I waited for the kids we talked about. I begged for his attention. I stayed through things that hurt me because I loved him. I loved him more than I loved myself for a very fucking long time. Then our relationship ended.
Going on a date, enjoying myself, feeling chemistry and kissing someone does not rewrite those eight and a half years. I can have loved him with everything I had and still enjoy someone else’s company now. I can be hurt by the end of our relationship and still laugh with someone new. Those things can exist at the same time.
What got me was how many times I said, “I’m at work. I’m done having this conversation. Please stop blowing up my phone.” And it just kept going. “Admit it.” “Be honest.” “Exactly.” At some point I realized he wasn’t asking questions because he wanted the answers. He was asking until I gave him the answer he had already decided was true.
And I kept falling for it. That’s the part I need to work on. Not learning how to explain myself better, but learning when to stop explaining myself. Tell me I’m dishonest and I’ll prove I’m honest. Tell me I’m hiding something and I’ll give you every fucking detail. Tell me something happened differently than I remember it and I’ll start building a goddamn timeline.
I don’t want to do that anymore. He is allowed to be hurt. He’s allowed to be jealous. He’s allowed to fucking hate that I kissed somebody else. I understand why it hurts. But his hurt doesn’t get to rewrite my history.
Transparency means I’ll tell you the truth. It doesn’t mean I have to keep proving it when you’ve already decided not to believe me.
Leave a Reply