After what I wrote last, there was an incident with the man I dated in the spring. We were navigating friendship in his sobriety. I was still healing and not ready to date. Neither was he. Fine. Then alcohol entered the world and very quickly I learned the severity of a drinking problem I only caught a glimpse of before. While he was in the height of inebriation and in crisis over the fallout of his behaviors, he crossed several of my boundaries. He pressured me for physical attention and kept asking me to take him to purchase more alcohol. In fact, he insisted several times I kiss him, hug him, or I take him to get more alcohol. He accused me of pouring out his liquor when I was grabbing him water. I got angry and left shortly after helping him walk the dog. Then as I opened the driver’s side door of my car, this man got into my car. I stood beside my car for at least a minute, car door open, trying to determine if I needed to call the police, readying my phone to do so. I bent down and looked at his dumb, drunk face and told him I was not in the slightest amused and he needed to get out right now. He did without saying a word. I left, shaken and very upset. I did not speak to him the rest of the evening. He did not reach out.
The following day, he called. I answered because I was worried. Someone intoxicated to that level is not safe alone, can need medical attention, and, as I personally and clinically know, people at that level of inebriation, might try to kill themselves. I also wanted to know what he would say. Would there be accountability? When I answered, he asked for advice about his child, clearly inebriated. I told him to drink water and call his parents. I was exasperated at the audacity of this person to solicit me into this dynamic. I told him I was hanging up, and, in an attempt to dissuade me he said “I’m afraid I’m going to aspirate on my own vomit.”
I can still hear the slur of it. “I’m afraid I’m going to aspirate on my own vomit.” My stomach is knots even now remembering it. “I’m afraid I’m going to aspirate on my own vomit.” I told him he’s not allowed to say that to the woman who lost someone the way I lost Jeffrey. I hung up. “I’m afraid I’m going to aspirate on my own vomit.” Shock.
I cannot really describe, even still, the kaleidoscope of things that became true in those moments after. The first man I told about Jeffrey dying, that I opened up to the possibility of more for my life, used that information to manipulate me into taking care of him while he was drunk. He attempted to coerce me into compromising myself, my body, my personhood. The magnitude of betrayal is panic-inducing. I marinate in the chorus sung by the Parts of me who feel like I should have known better. These Parts keep telling me I am incapable of caring for myself, that I am never going to figure out how to avoid having my heart broken by someone I love. These Parts ask me how I could have let this happen to me again. How did I not understand the signs? The signs were all there. These Parts were devastated. My awareness of them feels devastating. These Parts are the hypervigilance. A hypervigilance I have because of the massive trauma I experienced with Jeffrey, the trauma of not picking myself, my safety, my body. The trauma of convincing yourself if you love them more, they will love themselves. We all lose in that game, the one where we love someone more than they love themselves. New Parts of Me know I am never going to play ever again.
The following day, I received a short, inadequate apology, one that made it clear he did not remember anything, or, if he did he was too much of a coward to own it. I felt so shocked and yet not at all surprised. I constructed a message I am going to share here. I questioned my decision to do so, but as I keep telling people since this happened, I am in my “I’m not sparing men my feelings” Era. This man is lucky I’m not sharing more. Because there is so much more.
To: This Guy
I am at a loss for words. I have so much to say and nothing to say.
What happened was not okay. I don’t know where to place the fact that you may not remember much of it. It leaves me alone with what hurts: the memory of my “no” not being enough, and of one of the most traumatic experiences of my life being invoked in a way that pressured me to make different decisions.
I care about you deeply, which is what makes this so hard. I know you were drunk, but the version of you who exists when you drink is still part of you. The sober version of you is responsible for the harm that occurred. Until the You of Today can understand why the You Who Drinks reaches for alcohol, take responsibility for what happens when he does, and do the work necessary to prevent it from happening again, I do not feel safe trusting you.
I need time because I don’t know how to process how profoundly this hurt me. Please do not contact me for now. I’ll reach out if and when I’m ready.
I read this now and think it’s too polite for the scale of harm caused by this person. I see the severity of my shock. I could not process what happened. What this man did was so much of what Jeffrey did. It was so incredibly close. And yet it was worse. This person knew the story and still treated me this way. The audacity leaves me speechless. It is one thing to have endured everything I have, to have gotten to where I am now, but to have this thrown at me in the way it was – I am still so angry.
The thing is, this horrible event happened and I found anger. I found an anger that has never been safe to express. That made panic attacks. This man transgressed against my personhood to such a degree that I became injured and now I have to be the one to heal and fix it? The thought I kept circling on is the fact that this man is alive. He is alive and can know something Jeffrey never will: this man can know how violated I feel. He can know I do not accept these actions. He can know that I am someone who will never let anyone treat me like that ever again.
I know how to figure out if something is unsafe for me because I know what the feeling is in my body. And my body is loud. It is a clenched stomach. It is exasperation, exhaustion. It is needing to dissociate. It is not being able to read books again because my brain cannot focus and needs reruns of reality tv to pass time. It is my resting heart rate increasing 10 bpm over the course of the past month since this happened. It is sobbing while alone and needing to discuss this recursively with the four people who know me well enough to know why this hurt so much. It is a hip injury taking place around the time this man came back into my life. My body knows. It knows when something is really wrong. And I now know because I can feel my body. I have not felt my body in more than five years. I stopped feeling it while in relationship with Jeffrey, started using weed in a way I am uncomfortable admitting so I could sever my brain from my body more, numb the distress of everything I now see are warning signs. Then Jeffrey died. Any hope of reconnecting to my body disappeared as I thawed from the reality I was in.
And with everything I know now, now that I can feel again, I refuse to sit alone in the harm someone causes me to spare their feelings or experience of what hurt me. This man is alive, and nine days after sending the first text, I sent a second one:
I need to say something I have not said plainly enough: I am furious with you.
You knew what I experienced with Jeffrey and what alcohol has already cost me. Even so, when you drank, my “no” stopped mattering to you. You pressured me to take you for more alcohol, got into my car after I said “no”, continued asking for physical affection after I declined, and then invoked the way Jeffrey died while making me feel responsible for your safety.
Whatever you remember or intended, your behavior disregarded my personhood and replicated dynamics you knew had traumatized me. You made me feel disposable—like alcohol and your immediate needs mattered more than my safety.
I am angry that you did not step away from me before making me bear the consequences of a problem you knew you had. I am angry that protecting myself now means losing someone I care about.
I am not sending this to begin a conversation or to receive reassurance. I need you to understand why I remain so hurt and why I still need space. Please continue to respect my request for no contact.
I have not heard from him as I would not expect to. I have no idea if he saw them. I could be blocked, hidden, avoided. Ctrl, Alt, Deleted. Several people questioned my decision to send those messages at all. Why waste my energy on someone who does not deserve it, on this person who wronged me beyond redemption? And I told all of them, because I need to and I am worth it. This man is alive. He gets to be alive. He gets to be in this life right now. He could have had me. I am worth having.
As soon as I sent the text, I felt an almost audible shift in my entire body. I stayed in the feeling, closing my eyes to imprint what felt like an exorcism of every fear I have ever had. There was lightness. There was confidence. It felt so good to be the one to leave, to stick up for myself. I did not get to do that in my last relationship. It took me two years to finally learn that I can. I can protect myself and leave. I am capable now. I did it.
What happened closed the image I wrote about last in EMDR. The tiny version of me in the closet stopped being there. She saw me stick up for myself and trusted the process. I was no longer distressed by being stuck there because she is who left in the exorcism. Not leave so much as hand over control. I get to decide what is safe for us now. I proved that I can.
I joined Hinge a couple weeks later. I am ready to discern what I need. It’s very anxious to date, but I want to keep pushing myself to have the life I really want. I want a life with ease in all of my relationships – romantic, friendship, family. I want to feel like I can be as present as possible with the people I love. I want to be able to travel to see loved ones more easily. I want a yard for The Dot. I want a business that supports my ability to provide ease for myself. I want to continue reaching for personal goals so I do not lose myself ever again. I need to remain the agent in my life.
While running errands on Sunday, I had a moment where I remembered what it felt like to get a break from my relationship. Grocery store alone or drives by myself, getting my hair done. The relief in those moments was so palpable, not that I put words to it then. I see the relief only in hindsight, a baren string of beads, each one more cracked and tortured than the last. I realized that the ease I was feeling as I crammed several stops looking for a hat then a birthday gift then a card then wrapping paper for gift – the ease of being able to do so many things in a short time, was something that could not have happened a year ago, three months ago. There I was in the Goodwill parking lot sitting with both the most sad experience of remembering how it felt to be so adrift, so alien in her my own life. I catch myself doing that, writing “her” instead of “my”. I did it earlier in this draft somewhere also and I wish I thought to mark it. I see it as a sign I still struggle to integrate it all. Part of me really struggles to stop feeling responsible for what happened to me. Being responsible gives me agency. But the reality is, I did not have agency. I was stuck. Some of that was Jeffrey. Some of that was me. None of it should have happened.
Today would have been our sixth anniversary. I do not know what to make of that. It feels bizarre to look at my life now. I wrote most of this blog to Jeffrey last year and into this year. I wrote to him because to sever contact with him, to stop having the conversation, would have meant losing the delusion I was in. It meant admitting to myself I needed to look at what happened to me. It terrifies me to think of what would have happened if we were still together. I look at the me then and feel so sad for her me. She I was so lost. She I feels like a foreigner to myself. Alien. Grief and trauma make me feel like an alien.
I cannot stop listening to Atalanta by Rina Mushonga. I found it the day before I decided to send the text about my anger. The day before the exorcism. I looked up Atalanta, curious to know who this was Rina is singing about. I am not going to give a Greek Mythology lesson here, but the gist I get is that she was known for bucking the trends for abandoned woman raised by a bear. She hunted, was athletic, and refused to marry. She challenged every conventional gender role. How appropriate for this era I am in, the one where I find myself and do not spare men my feelings.
Happy six years to me.
“Atalanta”
Take what you want
And I’ll be okay
I’ll get up, I’ll get up
I’ll get up, I’ll get up
When you walk away
Now I’ve got a plan
Draw up the lights
You’ll be the mountain
And I’ll be the fire
I’ll get up, I’ll get up
I’ll get up, I’ll get up
When you walk away
‘Cause I got Atalanta
And you’ll be my protector
I’ll never run back
So let it go, me
I’ll get up, I’ll get up
I’ll get up, I’ll get up
I’ll get up, I’ll get up
When you walk away
We were just kids then
We talked like kids do
But now I’ve grown since then
And the mountain is not you
But now I’ve grown since then
And the mountain is not you