This started as a response to the author of Dear Me: a Breakup Isn't The End of the World. It's a well-written take, and has a lot of points I agree with. Buuuuut my reply was way too long-winded, so it got turned into a MyTake instead. Yay me!
Unlike most people I know, I've never been divorced and have no crazy exes. You could even say that, compared to some of my friends, I've had relatively 'easy' breakups... except for the one time I was actually in love with the person I was dating.
I don't fall easily or hard. I've dated many people over the years, but can only say that I've ever truly loved two of them: my first love, and my husband, 10 years apart.
Growing up, I had residual abandonment issues left over from my parents' divorce and was super-careful of letting anyone in because "he'll just leave anyway". My first love was also the first I'd ever let close enough to hurt me and, in my teenage mind, what happened next only cemented my belief that people couldn't be trusted.
He slept with a friend of mine, and that (along with the stress from family issues and undiagnosed mental illness) wrecked me. I fell into a deep depression, didn't eat or sleep for months, dropped out of college, and contemplated suicide. And, when I came out on the other side, I was bitter and afraid.
I trusted no one, and I kept my distance out of fear; I'd run for the hills as soon as things started to get serious, or I had meaningless relationships with asshats who abused the fuck out of me because I thought that's what I deserved.
Day after day, I'd tell myself, "you had your one chance at happiness, but you fucked it up and now you'll never have that again". I'm still not sure why, but I blamed myself for his actions; like, maybe if I were taller/thinner/blonder or didn't have these issues, he might not have cheated on me.
Obviously, my adult self knows that's not true. And things got, as they do, better.
I don't remember the a-ha! moment, or a lightbulb going off over my head. But I woke up sometime before my 28th birthday and decided that I was ready to begin moving forward. So I laid the groundwork for the kind of relationship I wanted.
I got rid of toxic friends, started going to therapy, and ended a relationship that was obviously going nowhere. Wherever I was headed, that old baggage wasn't coming with me.
And, as it were, I met the man who would become my husband only a month later.
Unlike in past relationships, he didn't demand my trust outright. He understood that trust is a privilege, and was willing to earn it (and, by "earn it", I don't mean he had to give me access to his social media or anything like that; surveillance in relationships is dangerous and undermines trust).
I typically run away screaming as soon as people mention the M-word. One of my exes used to call me his wife, and I'd correct him by saying "I'm no one's wife" (or something to that effect); but, when Hubs broached the subject, I did not respond in typical Von fashion by 1) hiding in the nearest corner and rocking back and forth or 2) breaking up with him immediately, because the idea of being married to this man didn't scare me the way it had in the past when others had brought it up.
That brings us to now.
Three years later, we're still together and happy. He's my best friend in the whole world, and he's helped me understand that I *am* deserving of love; the same love I'd once convinced myself I was unworthy of.
With his encouragement, I got help for my mental-health issues, quit my soul-sucking job, and went back to school. I started writing again (something I hadn't done since one idiot ex-boyfriend told me he'd take every last dime from me if I published anything) and couldn't be happier.
I've been to hell and back, more than once (and I'm not just talking about my romantic life), and I've got plenty of scuffs and scars to show for it. But I wear them with pride, and I wouldn't change a single thing about my past if it led me anywhere but here.
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