Little did I know I’d end up blogging a breakup, but the slow reality is sinking in.
This last weekend had moments of incredible pain, as I faced yet another day questioning my worth or what I did wrong.
Most of Sunday afternoon, I read “Disentangle: When You’ve Lost Your Self in Someone Else,” by Nancy L. Johnston. While I don’t “identify” as codependent (I really don’t like labels), I do recognize how often I have excused very poor behavior, naming it “forgiveness” by being the “good one” in the relationship. She calls this Facing Illusions.
The sections I read began to open an awareness in me: what have I tolerated in the name of “love?”
You are telling me this is denial?
Denial of what-really-is.
I’ve seen it as manifestation; aren’t I supposed to be imagining from the end? Isn’t love the essence of things hoped for, the evidence of things unseen? (insert “love” where “faith” would be)
Yet, when consistent patterns emerge of withdrawal, silence, no communication, and no-effort “contact,” at what point do we ask ourselves, is this even what I want?
I can no more blame the other; I must look within.
My own conditioning taught me to silence my needs, that they wouldn’t be met, nor were they worthy to be. So many times in this relationship, I didn’t voice “no” when I knew “no.” I gave and gave and gave without expectation of return; that is incredibly self-denying.
All of this I say without any judgment of self or “other” referenced. (the angry parts may eventually be shared)
I had unblocked him a few days ago after mostly blocking for two weeks, with sporadic moments of unblocking “to check,” when a text came through asking if I’m available to talk/meet at a restaurant. I did not want to quickly respond; I wanted to intend when–or if–I replied.
After allowing time, I texted, “I’m willing to discuss by phone.”
And to none of our surprise: no response.
Tonight, I sit here, so very grateful for the ways my life is blessed: teen boys playing basketball across the street (a new Indian family moved in two weeks ago), the teen girl in their family in her cultural garb yesterday morning playing solo basketball, the African refugee family a few houses down. I thank God (however you define) that I am surrounded by such rich diversity on my own block.
It’s these simple things that make me happy.
Happy to be alive; happy to breathe; happy to have a heart, open.
Keep loving yourselves, my friends. No “one” can give you what you so deeply desire, except you.
