April 4, 2024 – 4:46pm
≈22 hours until Mrs. Iona

“When all you wanted

Was to be wanted

Wish you could go back

And tell yourself what you know now…”

Taylor Swift had it right.
I do wish I could go back.
I know that hindsight is 20/20.
But I wish I could tell that 13-year-old girl that she didn’t deserve to hear ‘I hate you’.

Or tell that 15-year-old girl that got stood up at her school dance that he wasn’t worth the tears.
He’s going to cheat on you with some girl at an anime convention.
Don’t waste your tears.

Or the 16-year-old girl that he told he wanted to marry.
The 17-year-old who got to hear he was engaged to some girl in Florida.

Any combination of these things would have been enough to send any sane person running for the hills.
But hindsight is 20/20.
“When all you wanted was to be wanted…”

18-year-old me should have never reached back out to someone with more red flags than a color guard competition.
But hindsight is 20/20.
“When all you wanted was to be wanted…”

I was gaslit every time I brought up any concern.
I never could shake the feeling that I was the second choice.
Like he was just settling for me when things with Florida girl went south.
But I was crazy for thinking that. How dare I.

But let him recant so many stories bragging about cheating.
Both on me and on others.
Anyone that would listen.
Even my friends, over dinner for my birthday.
Maybe it’ll all come out in the wash.

21-year-old me deserved a better proposal than a K-Mart blue light special ring thrown at her head in a hotel room at an anime convention. I wish I could tell her. It means nothing. But hindsight is 20/20.

You’re 22 now. Still nothing.
Maybe 23?
24?
25?
26? For sure 26. You live together now.
27.
28. We celebrate (I use the term loosely) 10 years together (again, loosely). A sort of decade-long on again off again thing that I keep hoping will come together.

How do you go from dating to engaged in barely two years, then spend the next seven bouncing back and forth in an infinite limbo without putting the pieces together?
At what point do you count your losses?

How many fights and cancelled dates and awkward dinners and lovemaking sessions that were begrudgingly agreed to does it take for things to start to sink in?

I lost count years ago. The sunk-cost fallacy is a bitch.

Turns out the magical breaking point is something out of your own control. All you have to do is get sick on a vacation. Yet again, another term I use loosely. Less ‘vacation’ and more ‘driving multiple states away to sit and play video games over pizza’.

Any chance we can do stuff together? You know, as a couple?
How about the aquarium?
Nope. There are games to play and pizza to eat.

I feel super sick. Can we go home?
He begrudgingly agrees.
I guess the games and pizza back in Michigan will have to do.

“You ruined the trip. I just want to be done with it. With us.”
Well, alright. Your words, not mine.

I should probably be taking this harder than I am.
Yet somehow it feels like a massive weight lifted off my shoulders after so many years.
And yet, the idea of going it alone after a decade is terrifying.
Ditching the idea of my happily ever after and starting over from square one at 29.
But it’s for the best.

Surely dating isn’t that bad?
I haven’t been on a first date since Obama’s first term.
I’m an introverted neurodivergent mess of anxiety with a face for radio.
I’m not built for the bar scene and am certainly not the clientele for Tinder.
But it can’t be that bad?

I make my first dating app account.
PlentyOfFish.
If these are the fish in the proverbial sea, I think I’m good.

“I want to put a baby in you.”
Hi, I’m Kay by the way, it’s nice to meet you too.
“Actually, I’m just looking for a place to stay.”
Nice to meet you too. I’m Kay btw.

New message from Anthony: “I just wanted to apologize.”
Do I bother?
What sort of nonsense has he come up with this time?

“I want this to work…”
I know better… Don’t I?

I leave him on Delivered.
I can’t bring myself to read into it.
This has happened way too many times before.

A few days go by.
New message from Anthony: “What the fuck is this?”
Oh boy.
I know better… Don’t I?
Turns out, I don’t.

I open the message.
Below paragraphs of canned apologies and sappy nonsense is a screenshot.
‘Kay: 29 years old’
My PlentyOfFish profile.

“You said we were done, right?”
Another screenshot.
This time of a conversation I had on PoF.

“Maybe use a different password for this shit.”
Now you’re just hacking into my stuff?
But we were done, right?

“Can’t believe you would say this.”
The truth hurts sometimes.
“We’re done.”
I thought we were a month ago?

“Can’t believe you would say this.”
Right before dragging my name through the mud.

I’m the toxic one.
Every social media site.
All of our mutual friends.

No matter how much I endured.
No matter how hard I scratched and clawed to make things work.
Cheating. Unemployment. All of it.
I stuck around, and this is the thanks I get?

Our mutuals pick sides.
Most pick yours.
I don’t bother telling my side of the story.
Nobody’s going to listen to it anyway.
Somehow, I don’t end up exiled.

Seeing your name stings.
Hearing your voice triggers my fight or flight.
But I try to stay civil.
Nobody’s going to listen to my side of the story anyway.
This is just the way things go.

It’s been almost 5 years.
Seeing your name still stings.
Hearing your voice still triggers my fight or flight.

I want nothing more than to scream from the rooftops.
All the atrocities.
Everything I dealt with.

What would our friends think?
What if they knew about your history?
Imagine if they knew about you cheating.
Or standing me up.
Or our dead in the water engagement?
But no. I’m the toxic one.

It’s been almost 5 years.
The same circle of people still accept me.
That same circle brought my soon-to-be wife into my world.
I tell her everything I’ve dealt with.
I wish I could do the same with the rest of the circle.

I’ll be Mrs. Iona in less than a day.
Somehow, the idea of Mrs. What’s-His-Name hurts a bit more today.
“When all you wanted was to be wanted…”