It’s Not You, It’s Me.
It’s not you, it’s me.
A line made famous by the likes of George Constanza and other light-hearted Hollywood breakups. A way to soften the blow when you’re just not that into someone.
But I finally understand it.
Because it’s not you. It’s not you that was different. It’s not you.
It’s me. I’m different.
For years I dated the wrong guys, avoidant men who I likely subconsciously sought out because their actions affirmed the belief deep inside my psyche that I didn’t deserve to be loved.
Then came you. And it was so very different.
I sunk into immediate comfort with you, and it was intoxicating. I couldn’t believe this person not only allowed me to be completely and authentically myself; you seemed in awe of it.
No inhibitions, no questions about what I could or couldn’t, should or shouldn’t, say. No second guessing events or interactions the morning after. Laughter, affection, support where you didn’t owe me support yet.
It felt so different, like nothing I’d ever experienced in dating before.
And it was. But here’s the thing: it wasn’t you, it was me.
What I mean is, after all of these years of heartache, I finally did enough of the hard work to realise exactly who I was and why I deserve all of the love I can get. I deserve only the best love and the kind that is perfect for me.
So, when he came around, when things with him felt so very different, the difference wasn’t him. It wasn’t that he empowered me to be myself or banished the fear of speaking my mind or being my true, uninhibited self. It was just that I didn’t need him to tell me it was okay, I finally knew.
After all of his affection, all of the laughter, all of the comfort, now he’s gone too. While he’s slowly attempting to disappear, like all of the selfish cowards before him, I’m still me. I’m still different.
I remember the exact moment, on our second date, as he kissed me I thought, ‘this is it’. I was taken aback at myself, my eagerness and willingness to accept that I could finally be in a relationship again after all of these years of stunted attempts and heartbreak. Immediately, my ego began clawing its way through the haze of red wine to tear me down, tell me I couldn’t possibly get the love I wanted; this could never work.
But from that moment on, there was little question.
When we were together, the only way I know how to describe the sense of calm in my soul is to compare it to the feeling of watching the sunset over the ocean on a summer’s evening, skin salty from the sea and sunkissed. That’s what it felt like to be with him.
In the moment, it was amazing. I couldn’t believe that this part of my life was finally shifting, after so much pain and heartache, it was going to be different for me.
But to be completely transparent, there were still anxieties. I wasn’t completely healed of the years of hurt I’d endured, all of the scars I’d earned and created for myself. There were days I didn’t hear from him, and I worried he’d changed his mind. But he’d always reach out eventually, prove me wrong, even after a hard day at work or when he finally had a day off. It was never more than a few days, and I vowed to hold myself accountable for my own anxieties and acknowledge my own need to take this slow, to be self-aware, and to consider his needs. Relationships are a two-way street after all.
When I did ask for more of his time beyond our weekly date, when I finally indulged him with the knowledge that I liked him, when I finally decided we could start to work our way to the next step, he took it in stride. He needed more time, but he said all the right things, and I believed him.
My mind flipped and flopped the next day, I wondered if I’d made a mistake, but the truth was for the first time, I didn’t feel like I had. The uncertainties were coming from a learned fear, not an intuitive one. And knowing that made all the difference.
Things were shifting, I felt. This was a thing, I told my friends.
Then, they weren’t.
Then, he left messages unread, questions unanswered.
When we were together, he was affectionate yet deflective. He held my hand while guarding himself against intimate conversations. He answered questions and carried on stories where we’d left them off, but there was vitriol in his words.
And I knew.
I knew it was just like the others.
I knew I had been truly wrong to think, this is it, after only two dates. It wasn’t my intuition after all, but my hopeful heart.
And I couldn’t fathom how something could feel so different, and end up the same.
I tried. I tried to give him another chance. I tried to let him prove he still cared.
He did while he didn’t.
As we walked through the National Park on a sunny day, to a secluded waterfall we’d have to ourselves all afternoon, he turned around in the middle of the path and kissed me, putting his hands in mine.
As we retired to our towels after a playful swim, he rolled over and kissed me deeply, he rested his arm on my leg and looked to the sky. He rubbed my back when I sat up to watch a turtle slowly waddle through the tide pools.
But he only answered my questions, he didn’t return them. He didn’t seem to care when I brought up future plans, there was no hinting that maybe we’d be together in them. There was the resistance again, the bitterness still there.
So, he didn’t.
I wrote the longest letter, variation after variation. Some versions open-ended, asking for his side, some closed, not allowing him a voice.
I talked and talked. I asked everyone I knew for advice.
And what I kept coming back to was that actions speak louder than words, and his actions showed me where his heart was at.
And that was the answer.
My best friend told me, ‘and that’s just it, actions speak louder than words. So if you’ve decided to walk away, walk, don’t say you’re walking’.
I’ve always been a talker, a person who wants to hear the other side, to give a chance.
I don’t leave people in the lurch because I hate it when they do it to me, and it’s happened too many times. It’s kind of that I think if I keep up the good communication karma going, it’ll all come back around to me one day.
But I realised I wasn’t telling him I was walking away because I thought he deserved it, or at least that wasn’t the only reason, I was telling him because I wanted him to stop me.
As a hopeless romantic and hopeless forgiver of people I wished I could’ve loved, I sadly still do think he deserves the respect of knowing it’s over. And the worst part is, he doesn’t respect me one bit, not even enough to answer a harmless question about his day.
I know he’s not worth it, which is what makes the tears so sad. Because I wanted him to be. I wanted to believe he was different.
There’s a lesson in everything. I thought this one was going to be that I was capable of a relationship, of working through the hard stuff and learning how to love someone. And that I’d found someone willing to do the same.
But that wasn’t it.
The lesson here was: it’s not you, it’s me. I’m different. I am a strong, independent woman who isn’t afraid to let her heart break, who isn’t afraid to finally admit that you’re not enough for her, if it means she’ll get what she deserves one day.
It’s not you.
It’s me, I’m different.
