It's Not Okay: Turning Heartbreak into Happily Never After (28 page)

Lesson learned:
The truth shall set you free.

I
told Number Twenty-Six about my interview today. Guess how he felt about it? Two words: NOT HAPPY. I thought about not telling him at all, considering the bad blood between us. But then I put myself in his shoes and imagined what it would feel like to find out about what I’m sure will be promoted as a “jaw-dropping, bombshell, tell-all” interview, through a commercial or on the Internet versus from me. Yes, as much as I hate my ex, I hate being a cold-hearted callous bitch even more. Bummer! So, I bit the bullet and sent him a text telling him I did an interview regarding our breakup and that he had nothing to worry about. Unsurprisingly, no reassurance was enough to appease his anger. Instead it was just “How could you do that to me?” and “What a betrayal.”

I wanted to say, “How could
I
do that to
you
? Get the fuck over yourself!” I mean, I am so sick of everything being about this man. My relationship felt like it was all about him, my breakup has felt like it’s all about him, and now he’s making
my
interview for
my
show all about him too? Yes, I picked him and he picked me, but still, it was my show to begin with and if I wanted some closure for
myself
by going back to it, then so be it.

That was one of the many red flags in our relationship: It became so much about
him
and
us
that I lost
me
along the way. I don’t blame Number Twenty-Six for this, I actually blame myself. I laid the groundwork in the beginning by catering to him and taking care of his needs like a Southern woman is taught to do. The truth is, I was so happy to be someone’s fiancée that my world revolved around him. And not only did my world revolve around my relationship, but my livelihood did as well. The show had afforded us ample opportunities in the form of public appearances, sponsorships, or hosting charity events. But we were a package deal—there was no me without him or him without me. We were living our lives as a couple, both socially and professionally. And now? I was no longer me, I was one half of a couple.

Even through both seasons of the show, I’d done well in maintaining my identity. I had started the first journey secure with being a twenty-six-year-old walking contradiction, still young enough to be naïve but mature enough to embrace the contentment of knowing who I was deep down. And despite having been plucked from a normal life and thrown into a foreign world full of cameras, fancy hotels, and manipulation, I found a way to stick to my beliefs and be myself, for better or worse. Perhaps it was a heightened awareness of my surroundings, or maybe just plain luck, but I learned very quickly that the moment anyone showed even the slightest sign of weakness, he or she was a goner.

I knew when I embarked on all of this that my life would change at least a little, and as the exposure grew, so would the magnitude of this change. But it was all supposed to be for the better; my
life
was supposed to change, not
me.
I resented the change, because I wasn’t happy, and felt like I had to pretend to be for the sake of my new identity.

What people didn’t know was that after two shows, I had become a twenty-seven-year-old woman who walked on eggshells in her own home. What they didn’t know is I was trapped with someone who, in my opinion, often behaved like an emotional abuser. Yes, I said it, and I’m not taking it back. He was good-looking, with an electric smile and the ability to charm anyone, and his affection in public made people believe that he was a loving partner, but by the end of our relationship, it was just a mask covering the control he exerted in private. He had an uncanny way of manipulating situations and conversations to make me feel like the worst person in the world. In his own words, I was not only selfish and unappreciative, but the “most miserable person he’d ever met.” If we didn’t get invited to a red-carpet event, he’d say it was “because of my actions with Number Twenty-Five.” If I talked to another man, I was a “whore.” If I disagreed, I was “argumentative.” If I defied him, I was a “bitch.”

The more he said these things to me, the more detached I grew from myself. I stopped fighting back and instead started not only accepting his words, but actually believing them. And in doing so, I became an equally shitty person. Though I didn’t take it to his level, I wasn’t nice to him either. I wasn’t happy around him, I wasn’t supportive and adoring. I was resentful. And it extended beyond him. My parents and friends could see the change and often told me I looked stressed or tired. I’d snap at the slightest critique, which proved that not only was I someone different, but I was actually morphing into Number Twenty-Six. I operated at only two levels: silent or angry. I was either empty or mad, and no amount of makeup, gowns, photo ops, or public displays of affection could change it. I had let my relationship turn me into a person I didn’t like.

Ironically, it wasn’t what he said to me that made me truly realize this, but rather words that came out of my own mouth. You know how there are certain conversations in life that you never forget? The kind you remember exactly where you were, who you were with, and what you were doing when it happened?

Mine happened at the mall (no surprise there) on a Wednesday, when I was desperately on the hunt for a dress to wear for the live premiere of the current season of the show in Los Angeles, which was only two days away. Everyone was going to be there, including us—who as far as the viewers were concerned, we were still a happy couple planning our wedding. Frantically combing through the racks at Bloomingdale’s, I found myself pulling anything that was in my size, no matter how ugly or expensive it was. The saleswoman started a dressing room for me as I continued my search, and then my phone rang. It was Nikki.

“Hold on, walking into a fitting room.”

I found my dressing room marked with an ugly dress that I had picked out on the outside of the door and entered to find a plethora of dresses hung neatly by the saleswoman.

“Okay, I’m back, sorry—shopping for a stupid dress for this premiere.”

We gabbed about how excited we were to be seeing each other in a few days and about what Nikki was wearing, since she already had a dress picked out. As I tried on one ill-fitting dress after another, I unloaded to her about a fight I had just had with Number Twenty-Six.

I remember standing there in the dressing room examining each dress and bitching to Nikki about how fat I was, how awful the dresses were, and how shitty my relationship was, when I said something so surprising that it jarred even myself.

“Well . . . if I show up dead, tell the cops he did it.”

Immediately after saying it, I could see in the mirror my oh-shit-did-I-just-say-that? face and I quickly giggled in an attempt to sweep it under the rug, but Nikki knew me too well to leave it at that.

“What did you just say?”

“I said if I show up dead, tell the cops he did it.” I gasped and covered my mouth. Shit, I said it again! “No, I’m just kidding, I know he would never actually kill me.”

I quickly changed the subject as I continued trying on ugly dresses and asked her what she was wearing to the premiere, despite the fact that she had already told me. We gabbed for a few more minutes until she had to go to work. I don’t even know what we talked about, because to be honest, I didn’t hear a single thing she said. I was still in shock at my own word-vomit.

I was baffled about why I’d said that—and twice. There was never any type of physical abuse in our relationship. Emotional, yes, verbal, absolutely, but it never got physical, nor did I ever think it would. Partially because he knew that if he did, my dad would finally get the chance to dust off his shotgun and use the three-acre plot of land in the middle of Bumblefuck, Georgia, he had bought “just in case.”

But still, I had actually just said to my best friend, “If I turn up dead, tell the cops he did it.” Where was this coming from? Even in jest, I’d never said anything like that before. Had I really reached the point of leaving clues from my grave?

It was the fact that I didn’t take it back that really cut me deep. That’s the kind of stuff crazy women say about their crazy boyfriends. Had I become that crazy woman? Had he become that crazy man?

There I was in a brightly lit dressing room, barefoot, wearing a red cocktail dress, one hand clamping the back as I stood on tiptoe and envisioned walking the red carpet. I was paralyzed when I gazed into the mirror and saw a pair of brown eyes belonging to a woman I didn’t recognize. The eyes looked weak, hopeless, completely lost. There, in the mirror, was a woman so far gone she was joking about her own murder. They were the eyes of a stranger, yet they belonged to me. They belonged to the woman I had become. It was the first time I had truly seen this woman, and I
never
wanted to see her again.

This became the single most vivid moment of my relationship. I realized just how much of myself I had lost in the past nine months. I was trapped in a relationship that made me feel utterly worthless and dismally defeated. I had experienced so many moments where I knew in my heart that the life I was living was unhealthy, but it took standing in a dressing room and joking about my own death for me to truly hit rock bottom.

How had I become this woman? I used to be a woman who didn’t take shit from anyone, let alone a man, and who certainly didn’t feel subordinate. No, once upon a time I was sassy yet considerate, abrasive yet understanding, assertive yet self-deprecating, and most of all, just me.

I’d seen this scenario play out a thousand times during my days as an attorney—time and time again when I’d walk into a courtroom and see women with broken bones and bruised faces standing next to their partners. They’d tell the judge it was all a misunderstanding, but the proof was written on their faces—in black and blue. Same story, every time, and no matter how routine it became, I’d watch in utter disbelief. How the hell do these women stay in these relationships? I wondered. I wasn’t naïve. I understood perfectly why gangbangers killed rivals and dope dealers robbed convenience stores, but I couldn’t get past the mystery of why these women stayed with their abusers. To cope with the disappointment and disbelief, I’d make excuses for them: They don’t have a job so they stay with their abuser for stability, they don’t know any better, or they have no way out. But no matter how much I justified their decisions to stay, I never fully comprehended them until I was forced to ask the very same question of myself.

I wasn’t being beaten and battered like these women, but I was staying in a relationship that I knew was lethal. Unlike them, I had a way out, but just like them, I stayed. Why? Was it because I believed there was a chance that we would wake up one day and be transported in time back to the days of happiness? Our pure and undeniable love had gone from being a blessing to a curse. It attached strings to me that even the sharpest scissors couldn’t cut. Until now.

Because now I am free. We all are. Yes, shitty things have happened to all of us in the past. We’ve put up with things we never should have, we did things we wish we hadn’t, but we don’t have to be damaged because of it. Not anymore at least. What’s the point in being ruined by something as minor as a man? It does no good, not for you, not for your future. I always wondered why people come out of relationships and say they are “damaged.” I guess the prime example I always think of is cheating. I’ve seen it so much with my girlfriends, the typical douche bag who can’t keep his pants on, goes out and hooks up with someone, leading to the demise of the relationship. And you know what my girlfriends say? (Other than “he’s an asshole.”) They say, “I’ll never be able to trust anyone ever again.” Same goes with heartbreak—we all say, “I’ll never be able to love again.” I know I’ve said it during this breakup, probably a dozen times or so.

But here’s the thing, what good comes out of being damaged? So an asshole cheated on you, or broke your heart. Are you going to let that affect you for the rest of your life? Are you really going to let someone else’s actions be a detriment to you? Call me narcissistic, but there is no way in hell I am going to let someone else’s mishap steer me down a damaged road. If I’m going to carry baggage, it’s gonna be my own. Think about it—if someone’s cheated on you, or broken your heart, isn’t it
their
fault? Shouldn’t you only suffer from your own actions, not someone else’s that you can’t control. You can’t control that you broke up, you can’t control the feelings that you’ve had, you can’t control who you fell in love with in the past—but you can control whether or not you’re stringing them along with you. The choice is all part of your newly found independence. So repeat after me, “I will not be damaged, I will not be damaged, I will not be damaged.” Say this to yourself every time you brush your teeth or wash your face. Say it in the car, say it while you grocery shop, say it all the time until you believe it.