Shock, Anger, and Rebounds: Leaving a Long-term Relationship
Eight months ago I moved out of my partner’s home after living together for more than a decade. This was, to underexaggerate, a difficult decision to make and one that still raises doubt as to whether it was the right move to make or not. The relationship started in my early 20s — those critical years of exploration, trial and error, and identity formation. My partner definitely influenced me in many ways, teaching me as well. With them I learned how to live in a big city, how to not get lost in a crowd of thousands, how to rent an apartment, find a job, and, basically, how to adult. After such a formative time together, it’s understandable why I struggled to leave, even after what they did and with friends and family overtly expressing worry and uneasiness with me staying.
The breakup was messy and rushed, as I packed my things, said goodbye, and tried to quickly contemplate my next moves. As anyone ending a long-term relationship knows, there are always complications. In my case, I couldn’t move all of my things out, so they still have quite a few of my books and clothes. We share mutual friends and acquaintances, which makes it awkward, as some are on my side, others are not, and many more occupy an uneasy middle ground between us. I thought time and distance would help, but a decade is a large chunk of time in someone’s life, and I can’t simply erase it. What’s sad for me is not knowing when I’ll be able to see them again, as friends in new circumstances. It may sound like a bad idea, but I sincerely want to return to see how they’re doing and to know that they’re on the track to recovery.
Doubts continue to fly through my mind with regularity, but as the months march on, I’m able to answer them with greater confidence. At this time, I wish to reveal a bit more about the partner who I left. In fact, they aren’t a single person or even an actual person. My long-term, live-in relationship was with Russia, a country I called home for a decade until I left in March 2022. Despite the difficulties arising from the relationship metaphor I’ve employed, it provides a helpful context for me to process the emotions and feelings I’ve experienced and continue to experience since leaving.
I haven’t found a single word yet to convey the exact way I feel, because it’s a blend of shock, frustration, disappointment, anger, and grief (I think that’s all of them). This is no stable combination either, but a constantly shifting cocktail depending on the news, work, life, and, probably, solar flares. I understand personifying countries is a dangerous game, as it ignores the myriad of people involved in running a country and making decisions. Sometimes it’s a large group of people, something’s a bit smaller, but it’s not a homogenous mass. I chose to write about my relationship with Russia as a single entity, because it was a relationship. I invested time and energy into getting to know Russia, the Russian language, and the cultures of the people who live there.
It’s hard to say when exactly I began my “relationship” with Russia. I became interested in its history in grade school, started learning Russian in college, and came to St. Petersburg to study in 2011. That’s when I fell in love and got hooked. As this was happening, I witnessed the changes undergoing in the country. In 2011 and 2012, I saw the mass protests that could still legally take place in downtown St. Petersburg and Moscow. There were contradictions in society, as oppressive laws came into effect and aggressive rhetoric sounded on state media, but people found ways to express themselves in art and film. Life was improving for many people in Russia, especially in bigger cities. Russian citizens were working to make life easier for their neighbors in the banking and urban spheres, by organizing new spaces to spend free time, forging ahead with new restaurants and cafes, and creating learning spaces for people of all ages to adjust to life in the 21st century. From that perspective, the optimistic one, I began to believe in a better Russia, and in those working at the grassroots level, despite all the difficulties of Russian bureaucracy and society, to better their communities. I also believed in the growing globalization I saw, not always positive but still evident, that connected the people of Russia with others around the world in complex relationships.
I believed all of this would stop a war. 2014–2015 should have been a hint maybe, but seven years later, I thought Russia had changed enough to not allow a full-scale war to start. February 24th came as a blow in my relationship with Russia. Suddenly, I couldn’t recognize the people and places around me anymore. You think you know someone and then it turns out there’s a whole side to them you never bothered to notice. That is what I’ve been struggling with the past eight months — trying to understand where I was for the past decade. Did I truly understand what was happening in Russia or did I let myself be blinded by a façade of abundance and optimism?
With the shock and anger I felt, as well as a genuine sense of worry, I left Russia, as difficult and heart wrenching as it was, leaving things and memories behind, without a clear idea of what to do next. So much of my future was connected with Russia and St. Petersburg as a place to live. As this isn’t a human relationship, I know that I can’t and won’t “get over” Russia. It’s the biggest country on the planet, I’m glued to news from Ukraine and Russia, and I’m invested in knowing what is happening in the country, no matter how difficult it is to see the direction it’s leaders are taking it. It’s important for me to know what will happen in Russia, as my wife is from St. Petersburg and her family is there, as are friends and acquaintances (and my books). I moved to Armenia and then Georgia (the rebound comes after any relationship) where Russia is present in one way or another. I continue to use Russian at home, work, and around Tbilisi.
What I can do and am working on, is coming to understand what my relationship will be now and in the future. After these eight months, the sense of betrayal and shock and anger is still there, but it’s cooled. I believe that someday the people of Russia will face their demons, openly and freely discuss the difficult chapters of their history, and be ready to build a future that doesn’t rely on imperialist grandeur. I’m sure there are others like me from around the world whose relationship with Russia and the Russian-speaking world has hit a rough patch since February (or even before then). I hope we can find a way to contribute to the “wonderful Russia of the future” and return again.
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