Part 1: Escape Back to Neverland: The Discard

                                                              Art by juli_artlab on Instagram

     For the sake of privacy, some names and details have been changed in this story. It is, after all, the dignified thing to do, isn’t it? With heartbreak and even moments of rage, wouldn’t we all love to put everything and everyone “on blast” in true social media age fashion. But as I am sure you are aware, dear reader, we don’t live in that kind of world where rage is acceptable. It is particularly unacceptable for professional women. Shame. There’s that word again. It would be completely shameful for a professional therapist to have feelings of rage, wouldn’t it? Therefore, to make things as simple and consistent as possible with this ugly metaphor, we will refer to the man who broke me into a shell of a person simply as Peter.

     It was spring of 2023, beginning of April. I was working in my little office in a small town in southern Virginia. My beloved Peter was on a train journey on his way back to me after traveling for about a week for his work. I was anticipating the end of my day at work. I was to pick him up from the train station right after. I couldn’t wait to see him. Peter, on the other hand, was dreading our reunion. You see, Peter in actuality was on his way back to Virginia to discard me. As I looked through our text messages some time after “the day,” before I deleted them all, I came to realize I should have handed him the breakup on a silver platter. His messages were cold and distant. They consisted of sayings such as “I am not gonna lie, I am in a funky place in my head right now.” Granted, I knew we were having some communication issues and I had fully anticipated a hard conversation. I will discuss more details of this later in my story. I was anticipating the possibility of taking some space from one another. I was also able to acknowledge that we may need a third party to help us communicate. Side note: Therapists often have their own therapists. Was couples therapy an option? What do we need to work on individually as well as a couple? I was ready. Love conquers all, right? Peter was my best friend, soul mate, the man I wanted to spend the rest of my life with, all of the above. He made so many sacrifices for me to move to the United States to live with me. I was going to prove to him every day that I appreciate his noble sacrifice (yes, there is a hint of sarcasm when I say the word “noble”, you will see why later in this story). Peter was a drifter, a traveler for his work, a “free spirit” if you will. But he chose me. He decided to commit to me. I should be so grateful for this, shouldn’t I? He “picked” me. Yeah….I want to vomit reading that myself now too. Peter and I had been through so much before this. We could work through anything, couldn’t we?

     On my way to the train station to pick him up, I received a puzzling text from him stating that he had gotten into town early. I found this to be bizarre. After all, how often is the Amtrak train early? He had asked if we could meet at a local brewery to talk. I agreed to meet him there. I felt in my gut that there was something wrong. I barely remember the drive to the brewery. It was a decent day outside. I spent many times with friends and family at this local brewery. It is a beautiful space…outdoor patio seating, dog friendly, corn hole. Why did this drive feel different? I would not say I had a “sinking” feeling per say (don’t worry, that comes later), but a strange feeling that things would never be the same. I was right.

     I walked into the brewery and found Peter sitting alone with a beer. I walked in like a giddy little school girl, all smiles, couldn’t wait to hug him. I knew a difficult conversation was going to follow but I could not wait to hear how his week long work trip went. I was so excited that he was getting work again. His happiness, you see, was everything to me. Peter and I hugged. I had never felt a hug like this before. Have you ever experienced a hug from someone who really does not want to hug you? It’s more of a pat on the back with the feeling of “Let’s get this over with.” That’s what this hug was. We both sat down.

     I could tell Peter was nervous. He was fidgety. He was able to look me in the eye and state “I wanted to meet you here today because I’ve decided to move on with my life.” I stared back at him. Where were my words? You know that feeling when you experience traumatic or shocking news where everything slows down and it feels like you’re living outside your body? That was the feeling. After the server came by and took my beer order, I think I was able to spit out something like “I feel humiliated. I don’t know what to say.” To this, he responded with, “You’re going to have a lot of feelings.” Cold. Matter-of-fact. Unfeeling. Who was this person sitting across from me? It was as though I was speaking to a complete stranger. I did not know this Peter. He was cold, unfeeling. A lot of this conversation was a blur but the bits and pieces I do remember: Me asking “So, that’s it? One rough patch and you’re done? I don’t get any room for growth?” Of course, as a people pleaser at the time, I had taken on the majority of the responsibility of the downfall of our relationship. To that question he replied “I don’t think any of that can change.” I then asked about his belongings, since he was staying with me. He stated to me “I’ve already been to your house. Josh and Sandy (you will hear more about these characters later in the story) brought me over to get my things. I took an early train in.”

     It then occurred to me. Peter had blindsided me. This had been planned out for at least a week. This move had been planned out during the week he was gone, during the week he was still texting me every day as if nothing was wrong, telling me he loved me, etc. I obviously became slightly angry at this news. I think I remember saying something along the lines of “So, you just decided to sneak in, without a conversation prior. I thought we were going to meet to talk to work on things.” This statement from me sent Peter into a narcissistic, defensive injury stating “It’s my shit, man.” Man? This is what I have been reduced to? Calling me, “man?” This is what years of calling me “babe” and “love” was reduced to. I knew in that moment that there was no coming back from his decision. It was done. The idea of what I thought “we” were was done.

     As we sat across from each other, each of us drinking our beer, the conversation shifted to a “normal” break up talk. We discussed the practical things. I still until this day do not know how I was able to drink the beer I had ordered. I was feeling nauseous but also felt as though it was not real. I felt like I was in the Twilight Zone watching this happen. Finally, I knew we had to wrap this up. I knew I needed to get to my car as fast as possible to cry, drive, vomit, something. I finally was able to speak through tears and was able to state “Thank you for seeing me.” At those words, Peter began to tear up himself. I was so confused as to why. This was his decision. He also said some words that I now realize were very telling “I appreciate everything you’ve ever done for me.” (I now see this as Peter finally admitting that this relationship was transactional. How much of myself could I give? What could I do for him?) The other phrase was “I’ve never had anyone care about me like you except my Mom.” (Yeah…. I’ll elaborate more on the Norman Bates-like mother-son relationship concept later) Finally, I had to get out of there. Before I left, Peter did appear concerned asking “Are you going to get home okay?” (I now realize this was just a statement he wanted to make in order to make me feel unstable, as though I was going to run my car off the road or something). I simply said “I will be fine. Bye.” I walked out of that pub and never looked back. Even though I wanted to beg and plead, somewhere deep down I was able to remember “Oh wait, I am a therapist. I know how this goes. I have to do this.” I knew I had to go and begin my healing journey. I had to go straight into “No Contact.” The term “No Contact” is exactly what it says. No contact. It’s a term used when leaving a narcissistic relationship. But this time I knew it had to be “for real.” I could not reach out to him again. Here we go. Buckle up. I knew this was going to be a healing journey of a lifetime.

Introduction

 

     Shame. Yes, you read the correct word. Shame. That terrible, anti-mental health, anti-feminist, invalidating word is the opening word of this story. I never thought I would begin any of my stories, written or oral, with that word. Yet, here we are. I’m sure some would find it almost comical in a way. I know I do. I am a licensed therapist. I help people every day with their emotions and their wide array of problems. I facilitate sessions on a weekly basis to help others on their healing journey. These sessions range from individual, family, and couples.

Couples. Relationships. Love. Dating. “Situationships”. That, unfortunately, is what this story from a licensed expert is about. If I am to be honest and allow my ego to take over for a moment, I never wanted to write a memoir about a relationship and heartbreak. I pictured myself writing the next “Eat, Pray, Love” if I ever was to write anything at all. (You will see me reference this classic memoir a lot in this story.) I wanted to write about an exciting journey of self-discovery that involves a lot of travel. Granted, a relationship and a failing marriage is what prompted “Eat, Pray, Love,” but let’s face it, my story is not going to be filled with travelling to other countries or doing intensive meditation at an ashram in India. But, there’s always room for surprises, isn’t there?

Now, let’s get back to it, shall we? I guess I will start with referencing some things that shaped some of my core beliefs, which are mainly formed in our childhood years. If you were born in the late 80s and grew up in the 90s like myself, you likely were influenced by the “renaissance era” of Disney Films. You likely were also familiar with the older classics as well since you likely had copies of several VHS tapes (talk about a lot unnecessary plastic, right?) as well as the Disney channel playing these classics. I was raised on all of them, especially the princess films. Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, Sleeping Beauty, Cinderella, The Little Mermaid, you know them all.

In 1991 (this would put me at around six years old), my parents took me to see the classic Disney film, Beauty and the Beast. Like the rest of the world, I loved it. I loved the story, the music, the cinematography. However, there was one character that stood out to me. A character that would help me form a core belief about men and romantic relationships. That character was Gaston. If you are not familiar with the story, Gaston was the villain in this film. Granted, I was familiar with the concept of Disney villains from previous films I had viewed. But looking at it now from a more analytical lense, the villains I had viewed in Disney films prior were women. The wicked Queen in Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs…she had some major jealousy issues that needed to be worked on. Ursula in The Little Mermaid….well, she’s probably just resentful that she got banished to the dark corners of the ocean by King Tritan. The wicked stepmother in Cinderella…again, jealousy issues to resolve. Maleficent in Sleeping Beauty….well, she really needed to work on her anger issues and process her feelings after not being invited to a party.

But Gaston.. I felt differently about him. I found myself despising him. He was a brute, chauvinist, entitled, all of it. If we are speaking in psychological terms, he was an extreme narcissist. I knew I despised this archetype the moment I viewed the first scene he had with Belle where he ripped the book from her hand, making fun of her love for reading. He tosses her book an attempts to whisk her away like the alpha male savior he was. God forbid, a woman is intelligent and wants to read. Like most extreme narcissists, his character escalates. He becomes obsessive with having Belle, even though she asserted herself several times that she has no interest in him. It then escalates to “If I can’t have her no one will.” Ultimately, it leads to violence at the mob scene in the end. He locks her away, calls her crazy, and marches with an angry mob to the castle to wreak havoc on the perceived “beast.”

Why was this such a formative character/archetype for me? That’s easy. Even though I was only six years old, I was beginning to become familiar with the concept of love and partnership. I knew that I likely would want to fall in love one day and have a “Prince Charming” so to speak. Seeing that animated, disgusting brute of a man on that screen made me say to myself “Well, I will never end up with a man like that.” The Gaston’s of the world are full spectrum narcissists, abusers, all of the above. Black and white. No grey area.

Well, here I am today at 37 years old, and I can safely say that I stayed true to my six year old self watching Gaston on the screen. I never did end up with a man like that. I never encountered physical abuse, chauvinistic undertones in any of my relationships. I guess I should be congratulated, right? Isn’t that how that works in our patriarchal society? I kept those extreme black and white standards in my romantic life. Congratulations to me. I never ended up with a Gaston. And “shame” (there’s that word again) on other women who did end up with a brute, abuser like Gaston. Right?  “You should have seen the warning signs.” “You should have just left.” “You knew what you were getting yourself into.” These phrases, which currently make me want to vomit as I am writing them, are phrases I hear all the time spoken to survivors in places like a court room, at family gatherings, in gossip. Everywhere. Fortunately, in the last two years, more awareness is starting to be made regarding extreme abusers, extreme narcissism. It gives me so much joy to see more awareness made in therapy spaces, court rooms, and social media about the destruction these people wreak havoc on their targets.

But back to the story, I know I tend to digress at times. (Don’t worry, you won’t see me go down a Moby Dick-like rabbit hole of pages and pages discussing the whaling industry. Or in my case, pages and pages of things like the Irish dance world, theater, etc.). This story, my story, is not about the Gaston archetype. This story is about an unlikely character archetype. An archetype that hurts, an archetype that wreaks emotional and financial havoc on their targets, an archetype that is loads of fun and can be kind and gentle at times on the surface level. This is the archetype that broke me, the archetype who made me forget who I was for quite some time. This is my story of my complete and utter love and devotion to a man with Peter Pan Syndrome.