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.
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