And it wasn’t even my fucking birthday. That’s what’s the most frustrating part of all of this. He didn’t even have the decency to break up with me on or after, but instead decided to ruin my entire week by breaking up with me three days before. What an asshole. I’m getting ahead of myself. This is the story of how I got dumped three days before my 25th Birthday and how it has inspired this stupid ass blog.
I had been dating, D* (let’s not start with a lawsuit), for five years when he started to act weird. By weird, I mean he started to freak the fuck out. See, D an only child of well-off “Entertainment People“, is turning 30 this year. It shook him to his core. Suddenly, the fun thoughtful person I fell for was pacing around anxious. He was always a little bit of a hypochondriac, but he started to become more engulfed in these illnesses he thought he had. I’m not going to say he had or didn’t have them, but what frustrated me beyond measure was that he wouldn’t go to the doctor. I must admit I went from lightly asking to full-on reminding him.
“Maybe you should see an optometrist? Maybe a therapist?”
Didn’t listen. Which is his prerogative, but it just became strange. To be honest, I was going through my own mess of emotions. With family pressure mounting about marriage and moving in, a demanding luxury fashion job, and a re-entry to University, I was pretty fucking stressed. I also have clinically diagnosed S.A.D or Seasonal Affective Disorder and the New York City longer than necessary Winter’s, really mess with me. I’m sure I was awful during this time. More than usual with all the extra stresses. All of things, started to take a toll on us. On me. On Him.
I can’t sit here and tell you I didn’t see it coming. We always had some heated fights. We were so different, yet so alike in some ways. But those days, the fights became more personal, more pointed. There was a lot of bickering and times were I would leave the fight, not even knowing what we were fighting about.
It came to a head, when I did the one thing that dumb-ass sexist teen magazines had trained me not too. I asked the one question, a life-time of Women’s magazines had told urged me not to. I asked almost flippantly before we went to sleep, “What are we doing?”
“What do you mean” he asked, genuinely concerned.
“We have been dating for five years. We have to do something. Move in together? Take it to next level?”
He laid silent. Obviously shook. I tried to take it back, but the damage was done. I knew him well and could see it all over his face. He was going to be pondering this for awhile. And he did. For almost almost a month, I watched him fester. He would become weird and distant in one breath. Then all over me in another. He would make elaborate plans for us do something romantic one weekend and ghost me another.
The weekend before the week of my birthday, he announced strangely that he was going to visit his parents. His parents live a couple of states away, easily accessible by public transportation. Like I said, he’s an only child and babied feverishly. It wasn’t surprising that he was going to see his parents. It was surprising that he announced it and made it clear I wasn’t invited.
I was hurt, but decided to take it on the chin. I’m not a child. Supposedly. I shouldn’t get into my feelings about one random weekend.
Except it wasn’t random. It was my birthday week. I use to be friends with this horrible manipulative twins who would always announce, “It’s my birthday month.” I’m not that bad. But I’m foolish and never celebrate myself. I thought that my boyfriend of a million and one years, maybe would want to spend some time with me before a pretty groundbreaking birthday? No.
Anyway, he is quiet throughout the weekend. We had a relationship were no matter what even if we didn’t see each other or talk on the phone, we would update each other through texts. We use to call it, the “I’m alive text.” I get no response on Friday. Nothing on Saturday. A half-hello on Sunday night. I’m fuming by Monday, when he asks me to meet him at a Park near my house.
Five years earlier, we had walked through this same park on our first date. I was the age now, that he was then. Our age difference much more controversial then. I was still a teenager. My family was against it. My friends mildly supportive, but I believed in the relationship. Our connection was almost instant. We laughed about the same weird things, like Nicholas Cage edits and News Bloppers. We could always spot interesting characters from a mile away and read each others thoughts by just a look. While I sat on this park bench and waited for him, it all came to me. I was excited to see him. Excited to be with someone who just got me. Or just I thought.
The first red-flag, should have been that his eyes were bright red and he was shaking. As if he already had started crying. I thought someone had been hurt or died immediately, but when he wouldn’t hold my hand, I knew. I knew what was up.
“I just need to find myself” he said. “I don’t know who I am.”
This isn’t a great way to start this project, but do you know what I did? Truthfully. I laughed. I laughed at him. Then when I realized he was serious, I started crying.
Only people like D are allowed to have this narrative. Society let’s most white straight men do all the soul searching they want. To be perfectly honest, men in general can usually roll around “finding themselves” for unspecified amounts of time. They can be 30 years old and break up with their girlfriend of five years, three days before her birthday because they want to go fucking find themselves. Then expect little to no consequences. What’s worse is I actually feel like a shitty little brat for saying this. Ain’t that a bitch? Love is confusing. Heartbreak even more. This all could be the downfall of our relationship: our power dominances are all off. I’m not privileged like D is. I’m not white. Or a man. Or straight really? I don’t have years of wanderlust to go “find myself”?
Or do I?
Well this blog is dedicated to that. My 25th Year of getting over heartbreak, being a messy thot, doing way too much work, traveling all over the world, crying in the club, watching too much bad tv and most of all finding myself.
Because hey, self-actualization is like feminism. It’s for everybody.