being cheated on, part 2
When I first wrote about betrayal, I wrote about recognizing that feeling as the starting point to dealing with the aftermath of being cheated on—and back then, I truly believed I was 89% healed. Putting that into the cosmic universe felt like it had some freeing finality to it — the end of that chapter was just pages away. I thought even offering eventual forgiveness would get me to the rest of the 11% I had so anxiously waited for.
It didn’t—and I didn’t know I would be writing a part 2.
Unmuting the mute button.
The conversations I had with people echoed the same sentiment that I put into action—get through it. Each step I took was one step towards whatever was on the other side. But with every calculated (and unplanned) step came this gnawing feeling that the busyness that filled up my calendar was just a distraction. I was pitting two versions of myself against one another—one that was eager to flex the strength I had gained and the other was desperate for me to just recognize that underlying pain. I consciously put the former on display, while the latter I placed on mute.
But out of sight, out of mind doesn’t really work.
2017 was my year of extreme highs and lingering lows—even in those moments of happiness, grief, anger, and jealously came rolling by like tiny aftershocks. Triggers sent me spiraling into anxiety and situational depression and I found myself in a loop of repressed memories that would remind me of what he did. I was super pissed at myself. Fuck you for feeling that way again. Damn you for not being strong enough to get over it. Come on, you know better. For a perfectionist, this felt crushing. For a competitive person, this felt like a huge setback.
I had to go back to therapy.
The emotional exorcism.
My journey back into therapy were months of emotional exorcism. There were things I haven’t revisited in a long time—I emotionally dumped things that I was used to shrugging off and I rationalized things that made no sense. I sat across from her every week mentally cataloging any reactionary cues she would put off so I can just do the work and get over this ASAP.
The discovery work was similar to peeling an onion. What we eventually unearthed was unresolved anger feeding a growing fear—a rot so deeply-seeded that it was infecting the fresh soil I’ve been repotting these past 3 years. Clinically speaking, it’s called emotional trauma and attachment anxiety. Similar to Maslow’s hierarchy of needs, my “safety” layer was broken and compromised. I had unknowingly tied a foundational part of my own being to him. And it was still there. Even though I didn’t want to compare my current self to my time with him, I did. It was both detrimental and empowering— a warped yin and yang—I blamed him for planting the idea in my head that when a man tells me that he loves me, I won’t believe him, yet I gave credit to what he did for the immense strength in vulnerability that I found. It may have worked in year 1 or 2, but as our lives started to fully separate and diverge, that barometer was unsustainable. It did more harm than good—and without him as that outlet—it had no where to go but everywhere else.
After that session, I wanted answers. But, how do I scoop that rot out? How do I unwind our tangled cords? Does that memory-erasing tech from “Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind” exist yet?
But as my mind kept asking questions, my heart felt heavy like it needed to say something. So I wrote this down:
I don’t know how you did it, after you chose to do it once, to come home to me, hug me hold me tell me you love me, kiss me knowingly with the scent and linger you masked to break me.
What feelings did you feel when it was the second, the third, the fourth, the fifth, the sixth mistake, tell me babe, how far did you have to go for the guilt to take?
Does it still eat you up inside to know that you broke me, my DNA, my heart to love, my love for love, when did you learn to love to hate me?
When did you realize that I loved you too much I’d come back to fix you, that my worth was tied up in knots to pieces of your soul, that in anger I couldn’t think of a life without you. That I believed we were friends forever, no matter what, that you could let go each time to see how far you can fuck up. But I’m still stuck in those lonely loops that I can’t forgive you for, but pray to God time will help me forget.
Some part of you was young and broken too, I get that, I know that, but how did I end up broken now too? Your weakness made me weak, how am I supposed to love again when you did all that to me? So I dig and I dig, I crawl and I fight, I know that there’s hope on the other side.
I know that I’m better off without you, it’s a strength I know to be my truth, and that part of me I don’t owe to you. You’re the villain in my story, a scar that grew, an anger that simmered, a broken heart that kept on beating, a breath I held too long unto. And now that I’m breathing babe, I’m the hero in my life that can live the rest of my life without you.
Rereading that still gives me chills. Like WTF—what did that muted voice just word vomit out of me? I took that feeling with me and went into every session knowing I had work to do. From August to December, it was go time.
Grow and let things go.
Pain is necessary in healing, but suffering is optional. I know I wanted to speed up time to get to 100%, but what I learned is that healing isn’t finite, it’s an on-going spectrum. I can feel 89% one day, 100% another, and 47% after that, but that doesn’t mean I’m going backwards.
As I did my end-of-the-year reflection exercise to determine what my theme would be, I realized I had compared my growth to what had transpired: 2014 was my “WTF” year, 2015 was my “limbo” year, 2016 was my “course-correction” year, and 2017 was my “grow and let go” year. That tiny thread of the connection to him (or what he did) was still evident in 2017. But because 30 is eerily around the corner, I know that I don’t want my yearly themes to be compared to something I was hastily running away from—I want to finally own that I am where I am because of how I reacted to it, not because of him.
It took me 3ish years to grow a little bit more by letting go a little bit more. And that’s all I can do. Eventually, I’ll have nothing else to hold onto—and hopefully nothing else to write about.
Here’s to finally seeing where I end up going.
*this is essay 17 of many. join me every Sunday (or so) for a new one. tata.
