I don’t fear committing to one person, I fear committing to the wrong person.
When I began writing, I used the word “man” to refer to my ex-boyfriend. After thinking it over, I changed every “man” to “guy” because I don’t believe that he is yet a man. That is the way by which I have come to understand him and why our relationship ended. He’s a guy who arrived at the realization that I could be the last woman he’d be with. Such a thought terrified him, and understandably so. Forever’s always terrifying. So he ran.
In spite of his flaws, I don’t blame him for everything. I wasn’t the perfect girlfriend, but I tried for him. And he tried for me. In the end, I learned that trying isn’t always enough. Just as love isn’t always enough.
If you ask him why our relationship ended, he’ll no doubt have a very different response from my own. He’ll probably tell you that I was too attached to him, or that I expected too much, or that I tried to change him. Or maybe he’ll say I loved him more than he loved me, or that he just didn’t want to be in a relationship anymore.
Despite how he may remember me, I’ll always remember him as both my first love and first heartbreak. He’s the guy who told me he’d never hurt on me. This is the same guy, who after cheating on me, pleaded for my forgiveness and begged me to take him back because he only wanted me. This is the same guy who told me that he hated himself and wanted to die for hurting me. This is the same guy who’d tell me how much he loved and missed me every day we were apart. This is the same guy who told me he had to learn how to sleep alone again. This is the same guy who’d have sex with me, then days later cut off all communication (this happened more times than I’d like to admit). This is the same guy who once said, “I just realized that you’re the one who got cheated on, so nothing you say or do could ever hurt me as much as I’ve hurt you.” This is the same guy who I believe could sense the exact moment I felt I would survive without him, and tell me how much he still thought about “us.” This is the same guy who told me he didn’t “give a fuck about what happened in our relationship.” Yet, this is the same guy who still strives to convince me of just how much he cares about me and how wrong I am to think otherwise.
To this day I have told him “I hate you” so many times the phrase almost seems to have lost its significance. However, my love for him seems to outweigh any feelings of bitterness, always making it difficult to truly hate him. And love made me think and do things that I always promised myself I wouldn’t. I was that girl. Love made me that girl.
Love made me believe that a guy, who admitted to being unfaithful in the past and having never ended a relationship on good terms, could be a better man for me. Love made me believe things could be different because I was different. Love made me believe if I loved him enough, we’d be together forever, and there were times when we felt so in love that we’d promise to always be together. He was different with me. But only until he wasn’t.
Love made me believe I played a bigger role in the demise of our relationship than I’d considered. Love made me believe that if I’d voiced my doubts, I could’ve saved our relationship. Love made me believe I could’ve moved past the betrayal and disrespect I felt from the person I loved the most. Love made me believe he was all I wanted (and deserved) and that no other guy would ever make me feel the way he did. Love made me believe if I loved him hard enough I could save him from himself.
Love made me feel so attached to him, the mere possibility of losing him made me latch on tighter. Love made me believe he was my soulmate. But love also made me believe letting go of him was the best thing to do. And still, love made me believe letting go would eventually bring him back. Sometimes I still think of him as my soulmate, and I wonder if we’ll find our way back in love again. And other times, I simply think of him as a lesson.
Love, however, didn’t ruin me. But it did ruin a part of me. Love changed the way I think of loving some. Love damaged my trust. And for a time, love broke me. There was even a time that I contemplated suicide, not because I wanted to die (I don’t really believe anyone ever “wants” to die), but because love caused me so much pain, and I wanted that pain to end. Loving him was thrilling and passionate, but it was consuming and terrifying. He once told me he believed he couldn’t be with me anymore because he no longer just wanted me, he needed me. I felt the same way, and it was terrifying. I was just as terrified of love as he was. Sometimes when I’m alone, my thoughts still drift back to being in love with him, and I now accept that I’ll always love him. But I now also accept that I will never love him in the same way. Not because I love him any less, but because I love me more.