I've had a fairly weird couple of months. In short, I got dumped. I got so triumphantly dumped that the for several weeks afterward, my life consisted of secluded Netflix binges and the paranoia of wondering if I was going to start sobbing on a day that I decided to wear makeup. My first love who promised me marriage, kids and eternal happiness left me alone and destitute. He was going to move on and marry a Victoria's Secret model with a huge brain while I, a sad and lonely potato, was destined to die alone. My panic attacks got worse, I could barely focus on school, and there was a weird, fleeting period where I was convinced that I was going to vandalize his car. It was this weird tumor of emotions that I just could not shake. I never thought that a guy would overtake my life that much. But, in the end, he did.
I really don't know what I was expecting to feel after the breakup. I knew I would, of course, cry, and probably cry often, but I had no idea for how long. The first week went by and I managed to save the ugly crying for when I was alone. I was actually proud of myself because the tears gradually faded after that. But it became much worse when the crying stopped because my life was filled with nothing but reminders of him. There were the small gifts and letters that I had forgotten about, and it seemed like wherever I went some piece of him was there waiting for me. It didn't take long to realize that purging a year and a half of love from my life was going to be the worst part about this whole thing. Because the sudden realization that I was definitely not okay when I spent so long thinking I was was one of the hardest pills to swallow.
I want to make it clear that the person I was with never laid a hand on me. There was a time when I loved him and he loved me, there was no debate about that. But it was towards the end of the relationship when I started to notice a few things. By some kind of magic, every fight miraculously became my fault. Every apology was laced with passive aggressive comments that suggested that I was to blame for the whole thing. My anxiety caused me to overthink and start fights and that he had to talk to me the way he did in order to get through my head. These kinds of behaviors are characteristic of emotional abuse. And I think I knew this while I was still with him, but just didn't want to admit it. I knew that he loved me, and I knew that he didn't wake up every morning thinking of new ways to make me feel like crap. I think that might be why emotional abuse isn't always taken seriously because it can still happen even if the person does not hurt you intentionally. And it sure as hell doesn't leave a mark that you can see.
I met someone new about a month ago, and he's amazing. I know this guy will be the fresh start that I need. But no matter what I do, I can't get my ex out of my head. Every sweet comment from the new guy brings back memories of the bad ones from the old. I can't shake the times when I felt like a burden and I felt like I didn't matter. The fact that I really couldn't get over my ex as easily as I thought was what made me think that things with him were not as good as I thought. So yes, emotional abuse most definitely still counts. It still counts and it is still ridiculously hard to get over. And, to put it as bluntly as possible, it sucks ass.
Now that I've had the time to think about it, I've decided that getting over a breakup is like swallowing a pill that's just too damn big. It takes you six times and a few prayers just to swallow the thing and it makes you gag the whole way down. Once it finally goes down, you think it's over, that you can breathe again, but the taste is still there. It's this weird, bitter, gritty aftertaste that leaves you with a reminder that you let the pill sit for way too long. It's not fun. But I guess the whole point in me writing this is that I am here to describe just how royally and stupendously not-fun it is. At times, I don't know how I did, but I survived it. And you will most definitely survive too. You hike yourself up by the strings of your week-old sweatpants, flip your shirt inside-out to cover the ice cream stains, have a good cry, and eventually move on. Believe me, it seems impossible, but one day it will happen. I wouldn't lie about that.