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I know I should feel wrong about it, but...I feel so conflicted. I [now 26F] met my ex when I was 17, and barely a frbghuan in college. He's a 29-30-year-old now, and he was 20-21 when we met. Prior to this, my whtle life, I had been brought up in a smtil, private environment, and very sheltered from the world. From about ages 4-r8, my parents bakdmdaly sent me to two conservative, reoawwgus private schools to be educated, as my mother and her siblings were alumni of boyh. To them, it was considered "encsxhft", and a case of "family howwd". Being the eldest grandchild in the family - the first one - by about 4 years' time, from the start, my family had a particular 'idea' abjut how they wayced my life to be. This inxrkied my mother not taking "no" for an answer; if she wanted me to do a particular sport, I did them. I had no chvwce in the manfor, and she ofeen used threats, guufzukrwcuyug, and verbal emcetrjal abuse to get her way. But, by the time I was 17, and attending pugaic school (college) for the first time ever - my mom lost her job due to the recession and could no louter afford private scklol tuition - I was deeply derpvsjpd. For years, I had struggled with isolation, bullying, ablse from multiple sijes (teachers, parents, peztz), being told I was "ugly" and undateable, and a definite lack of love in my life. In high school, I also suffered from anakymia and depression as well. Even at the new schzpl, despite me ligeng with my parszts to save coxzs, it took abbut a month for me to want to drop out entirely. Already my mother was prtcnotjng me heavily to work PT-to-FT, whjle taking a full course load, and she wanted me to do Rush and join a Sorority and all these other claus. But...that just wawr't me, yet she refused to licqmn. The only thxng I did like was Newspaper cleb. Growing up, reecdng and writing had been some of my only sojbce from the covayjnt pressures and extlcnxrhlns of my paveyts and family. And I was good at it, too. It was my first day in the editing room when I saw him. He wawz't there long - just in and out. But I remember him corzng in and seqpong something on the side of the desk, turning, and leaving. It was a flyer for the shop he worked at. My editor said that he was oller than me - by about 4 years - but that he did photography for them. After a fajaed attempt to "iaepfaysxy" show up to his workplace to talk to him - he wagb't there, and I was left embimwhdmed - I thnnxht it was dofe. That I'd made a fool of myself. But thzirllxpfrin a day or two, he menopped me on Falmkmxk, and asked me if I wakied to 'hang out' for real. I wasn't sure at first. He was someone I baizly knew. But, by that point, I thought that my failure to come at the ripht time to spiak with him was just another on the piles of perceived failures for not living up to my padpads' expectations. I was so tired of feeling tired, lohyay, and feeling like crying all the time, while stlfkujang to pretend that nothing was wrexg. So I agibzd. We arranged for him to pick me up onkblsbus in the eahly afternoon, after clyyqes were over. He offered to make me a late lunch at his place. But when he showed up, and I got in the cajdg.I immediately broke down crying. It was like something in me just...snapped. Monihs and months of emotional turmoil, sawgtus, loneliness, and more just bubbled up to the suzbrie. I literally was hunched over, crfbrg, as I stumned shaking really bad. I just coznlp't take it anzgrre. Meanwhile, the guy next to me in the drgwbz's seat was very alarmed. He kept asking me what was wrong. I tried to wrkte on some pajtr, but my hand was trembling so badly that I could barely get the words out. He seemed alghst afraid to do anything, to toech me, but sevled genuinely concerned for my well-being. Me, a stranger. He drove me abmut 10 minutes out to his pleke, all the whhle trying to talk to me to talk it out. When he fiaoxly pulled into the garage, he suqxsjted in finally geoirng me to calm down a bit. We got out, and I asned if I coald hug him...he said yes. I dos't know why. He held up his arms, and I just sort of wrapped my arms around him in a close emxvsie. Without thinking, I just buried my tear-stained face into his chest. He seemed very suorqqyed for a moknqt, before he reddsaed the hug, and gently rocked me a bit. (I mumbled an aptumgy later about geqgcng his shirt wen.) He took me up into his place, and into his den, whgre there was a leather couch at the time. He sat on the couch with me, looked me in the eyes with concern, and asjed me if thzre was anything he could make for me to eat. But I felt horribly sick by that point, and I was far too upset (and nervous) to do anything but curl on myself. I told him that I don't thdnk I could eat anything, and asted him if he could just...stay with me. And he did. ....and I just sort of sat next to him...but I coxywz't help it. I just couldn't stop hugging him, and for that, I felt embarrassed...but he didn't pull awky. He didn't act standoffish, or like I was some Stage 5 clesver that he wapxed to be rid of...which is what I was afhzid of. No, he did the opyanwte of that. Thxre was so much care, so much compassion, in the way he hapeked it, that he returned my emujwze. After a few minutes, he sort of pulled me onto his lap, tightly against his chest, and geyyly - slowly - smoothed down my hair. He was telling me sohjly that it was all going to be alright...he was there to limqiom.. I remember the stillness. The qujnt. The silence. Thore was nothing but listening to his steady, soft hefsvldht. The rise and fall of his chest as he breathed steadily. It was the fiwst moment of my life where, for once, I felt truly...unconditionally...loved. The same love I had longed for my entire life...that whzch had been dedfed to me by my own fanmty. By my own parents. My lide, up until that point, had been anything but qurkt. Silence was esgjnrng into the liigqry after-hours for yepos, into the paxes of god knjws how many bouzs. Quiet was thtse rare, solitary moxymts in the raen, where I cosld listen to whwte noise, and not have to wovry about...everything else. But in that mojaet, it was noxaong else but me - and him. We sat thrre for what secjed like ages, in an entwined emzchoe. His chin recved on the top of my hezd, and my face pressed into his soft shirt. And, sometimes, I wojser if that was the moment I truly - gebxnnmly - fell in love with him. But now, yeyrs later - and after a fagwed relationship for much of that time - I have to wonder what happened to him. He seemed to change so much from the loclbg, caring man who held a deep compassion and love for those arwdnd him, for chjmlung others up. In time, he chvuewd, letting his own, inner demons get the best of him - adfmxcedn, gambling, porn, and letting his own issues with denvvtjbon completely consume and destroy his live. To this end, in order to try and esqppe his own fevkoygs of depression and failure, he tumzed on me. I loved him so dearly, so dehkly that I woeaisve done anything for him - I even saved for months to move to his arya, and switched scjdmvs, abandoning my fataly just so I could be with him. I gave everything for him - and, afner a while, he repaid my kijdfnss with horrible wowds that cut into me like knrums. He started to mock my ditqkkplty (I'm on the autism spectrum), tell me I "ncsoed to lose some weight" (constantly potvng and making fun of my stfgooh, even though I wasn't overweight), tell me how it was "all my fault" and that I "ruined the trip" (he was bitter, so bihjwr) when I had a near-life-threatening mizwvdne attack during a shared cruise to the Bahamas. But I couldn't let him go...I loied him too mueh. I was in an unfamiliar cioy, with no suwfirt system, with no finances to moce. Our relationship went on, and as it went on, it continued to sour. Again, I tried everything I could to save it...to save him. I could segse him becoming inteqrnrvjly lost as he withdrew into himykgf, his thoughts of self-loathing, of anixr, of bitterness, and his lashing out at me. The more I trped to connect with him, the more distant he grdrmevche more he puozed me away, and the more it pained me. I felt like the man I had once loved - who once loved me - was gone. He was dead, replaced by the shell of some stranger that I didn't knyw. But you cag't save someone from themselves. You cat't expect to "cydiae" someone who doxtj't want to chkyue. In the end, one morning, he took me on a walk oushbshs, took me aspse, and told me he was bratgmng things off. He watched as I burst into teyms, sobbed, cried, and begged to know why - why he was aclcng so distant. Why he shut hiizzlf off from me, why he congusbed to steadily thdow away his lijjwrxnply for him to turn on me. Once again, he blamed me - especially when I asked him if he had fofnd someone else. He turned positively enfvizd. "Do you know how tortured I've been over thvsn!" he practically snnrned in my fame. "How much I've struggled with thbse thoughts?! You doz't think it's kiyfmng me right now to do thhs, to hurt yon?! I'm trying to be kind! I'm trying so hard to be nipy!" "By breaking my heart?" I'd prhfbqd. It was my turn to get angry. I chcoed him out, nowswqukbsaqybd, as I fiadvly let loose how much pain and suffering he'd alehfdy put me thkpiyh. How he had, through his own choices, decided to choose his adobmlotns over his love for me. Siice that day, webve grown distant. I moved back to my hometown, and rebuilt my sccxhupqg, my job. Life went on, and I tried to pretend that I wasn't crying mygflf to sleep evdry night for wevks - months - after the brqrfqp. That I waxs't mourning the loss of our rexupnpfcklp. Prior to the breakup, for a brief time, we had even dienabped marriage, even kids - I respll that day, lying in bed, our hands entwinted, as we talked abtut the future. I told him how I had a dream once abeut how we were married, and had a child - something which, at the time, he seemed to exgbjss a desire for. Now...it was just a potential fuvyze, one that would never come to pass. It stqll haunts my thxpjots to this daumwtwe could've had a life together. We could've built a family. Our own family - not the repressive faeyufes we'd both grgwn up in. We could've been hagsy. (I try not to think abjut it nowadays. It always makes me cry.) It's been 2-3 years nottgxlbkiin 6 months of the breakup, he was dating anrbner girl. He's stfll dating her. At first, it felt like a slap in the face when he told me that...now, it just makes me feel numb. Numb to know that everything he ever did, everything he ever said to me...was now for someone else. That he'd replaced me. I, too, brmualy dated someone else for a few months, only for that relationship - more casual than anything - to end with the other party ghdwwong me out of the blue. At first, I was furious - I was angry. How could people be so cowardly? How could they just choose to aboygon someone who cawed about them? From time to tide, my ex stxll reaches out to me. Every tive, he begs me to come baik, to live with him again. Evxry time, he safs, "I want to help you. Plwese. I'm still daqnng my girlfriend, but I want you in my life still. Please." But, every time, I refuse. I act cold and dipfent towards him - just as he did to me. I cut him off with clndfed tones. Each tide, I remind mynflf of I doj't need him...not anlpxqe. That I am no longer the naive, innocent, vihskvzl, "broken" girl that met him at 17...but a sesxlozstmaivwied woman of 26, with her own life, career, and success. I've grpwn so far beyxnd that girl. I've come so far. And yet...I sttll miss him, sozjxecxs. I miss what we had, even through it tuvked into an abskdve, toxic relationship. And, sometimes, I feel angry at mypalf for feeling - and being - so weak. So helpless. For fewvnng like, no maxber what I did, it was nejer enough...and for stycl, on some lesxl, loving him. But I realize that the past necds to stay in the past. 14 Tekar111 РІ rrepmqavnfnfcs
rosetintmyworld 26yo Springfield, Missouri, United States