He knelt to the ground on one knee, pulling out a small black box looking to be made of leather. He opened it, and wedged between a slit shined a ring with one small diamond accented on a silver band. His light brown eyes looked up into mine and he asked, “Will you marry me?”
It was going to be the start of a new beginning. I was going to get married, probably have a few kids, and live out the rest of my life with him until our last breath. Yet I knew*, I knew** I wouldn’t be happy for the rest of my life if I decided to go through with marrying him.
That’s why I ended it, one month after accepting his proposal. Before I broke it off, we constantly argued about when to get married. I wanted to wait until after college, which was at most one year, and he wanted to marry in two months. What hurt most was when he told me he didn’t care whether or not my older sister could make it to my wedding. My sister lived out-of-state and is a medical professional, so that meant planning in advance and requesting days off later than sooner in the year.
Breaking up is never easy. I cried almost every other night due to frustration over whether I should hurt him with the truth, or live with myself for getting married to someone who did me more harm than good.
One day while we were having a heated argument again about wedding dates, I mustered up the courage to tell him what I needed him to hear. Afterwards, I gave him back the ring and in the following days, I went to the extent of writing and mailing a letter to him. I wanted to explain myself further and make it as straightforward as possible that it was over — we had broken up and got back together so many times that the letter was my way of showing him I was serious. But still, he could not accept our ending.
A week or two later in May, during the week before finals, I received a text telling me to go outside for a talk in his car. It was him. I thought I had made it clear to him we were done, but he was back. I didn’t want to see him, but considering the love I used to have for him, I agreed to meet for one last time.
It was a big mistake.
I couldn’t count how many pills there were, but there was definitely more than one — enough to scare me back into our toxic relationship; however, I didn’t cave in. I couldn’t. No matter how much he cried or begged or yelled, I held on to any bit of courage and strength I had. I felt sympathy for him, but being too compassionate would only lead me to give in and bring him back into my life — again.
At that point, I started crying too. I cried out of fear — for myself and for him. He told me I was taking everything from him, but he was wrong. During our time together, he received a Medical Assistant degree, a CNA degree, a job, and a brand new car. I reminded him of his accomplishments and how he should use his achievements to focus on moving forward, and someday finding someone who was ready to settle down with him.
It didn’t work. He threw the pills in his mouth and raised a water bottle. I reached out for the bottle, smacking it out of his way. Water spilled everywhere, but he still drank up whatever was left. He kept asking me to sit in the back of his car with him, to hold him for the last time. I declined over and over. A few minutes later, he lowered his forehead onto my left shoulder, continuing to cry. Since he was facing down, I took the opportunity to sneakily pull out my phone from the right side of my body. I muted it and then texted my mom to hurry home because [my ex] was trying to kill himself.
While we sat there, time seemed to move so slow. He was crying and I was unsure of what kind of medicine he took and if it was fatal. At last, my mom came home, parked the car, and approached us, standing on the passenger side door where I was sitting. She tried to talk to him, but he was resistant. She called 9–1–1 and gave information about the situation. The operator wanted to talk to him, but he was not having any of it; he howled at my mom to go away.
With one last attempt, he started up the car, saying that he was going to take me home. Panicking, I reached for the door and jumped out. Before driving off, he yelled one last remark at my mom.
One cop arrived at my house and asked me questions. He gave me his card and further told me that he would call me when and if they found out that [my ex] made it home. A few short hours later, the cop called me back to let me know [my ex] made it home safe and he didn’t need a hospital visit for whatever medication he took. My family and I concluded that it was just his ruse to get me to go back to him. Nevertheless, I was glad that he was ok.
For a few weeks after that, he continued to call me here and there, sometimes leaving voicemails. I ended up blocking his number. One month later on my 21st birthday, he sent me a lengthy letter that consisted of messages about him missing me, waiting for me forever, and hoping that I would go back to him. But, he also included that I needed his permission before dating again, that he would “hurt me” [sic] if I ever tried to stop him from continuing to pursue me, and that if he ever died he would come back to get me. Two years later and I still have the letter. It is my evidence for when and/or if something happens to me.
Today, aside from the occasional nightmares that I’ll have of him raping me or bride-napping me, I’ve moved on from that chapter of my life. I left behind what was unneeded and took with me the lessons that have helped me grow. What was once supposed to be a new beginning, abruptly became a much-needed ending. With the life that I’m living now, although not perfect, it is better than what it could have been if I had not opened the door to a healthier beginning.
