Controlled silence
We expect relationships to end over big things. Like cheating, beating or high level deceiving. My reasons were more like a pile of little bricks. They don’t look like much on their own, but once stacked up they create an unclimbable wall. A wall with “you need to get out” painted on the side.
I never know what to say when people ask me what happened. But once I was gone I knew I was never going back.
It had always been my dream to travel. Like most of us, I have an insatiable curiosity for the world. I grew up where most would agree is the middle of nowhere. I was always dreaming of finding somewhere, or even anywhere.
San Francisco was a taste of that for me. It definitely felt like somewhere, a place people wanted to be. And my career has me traveling a lot. It takes me to the most wonderful places.
I was so excited when I first got the position. I’d lose myself in projects and find myself unaware of how much the clock was ticking. I attended late night events, meeting interesting people. I was falling in love with my new life.
My ex, however, was not.
He resented me for it. My career was gaining speed and he was afraid I was going to leave him behind. He told me, many times, that he was afraid I was too good for him. He had nightmares that I cheated on him.
It was confusing. I thought this was a win for us. We were finally in a good financial situation and I had my first job that I didn’t hate.
He had me convinced I was doing something wrong by following my ambition. He voiced concerns about losing me to the machine. He complained I wasn’t there, with him — that my head was somewhere else.
I tried my best to bridge these two worlds.
I stopped staying at work as late as I wanted to. I declined invitations to get drinks with friends. I went home every night to keep him company while he got high and assured him we were going to be okay. That my career wouldn’t get in the way of our relationship. That he was worth something to me.
At the end of most nights I would build his confidence back up enough to go bed happy. But, every morning, I would wake up and find myself going through the rhetoric all over again,
and again,
and again.
It was like I took a vase home. A vase that I placed in honored spot, that he’d knock over.
Then he’d demand I put it back together.
And I would. Every night, hunched over, trying to find where all the pieces fit and painstaking gluing it. All the while he was yelling at me for not putting it together fast enough, or the way he’d do it.
After I’d finish, the vase vaguely resembled how it looked when I bought it. But it no longer held any water.
I no longer wanted to look at it. It was becoming ugly to me.
There were some nights I couldn’t put the vase back together. I would work on it until one, two or three in the morning before I’d lay down in exhaustion. He’d sit up, next to me in bed and berate me for being too tired to continue talking about his emotional state.
I’d explain I had work in the morning, an important meeting. But all he heard was “my job is more important to me than staying up with you all night trying to cure your sadness and missing work the next day.” And, well, that wasn’t exactly wrong…
We live in San Francisco. This city isn’t exactly somewhere you can have a roof over your head and not work. No boss would ever accept the excuse “I’m sorry, I can’t come in today. My fiancé kept me up all night because I couldn’t cure his depression with my words.”
I begged him to get help.
I have clinical depression, too, and I could see signs of it in him. I could for years. Years I asked him to get help. He always had an excuse.
“We just moved, things are really crazy right now.”
“I just started this job, things are just too busy.”
“I got a new manager, it just isn’t a good time.”
“I was just fired, I’m dealing with some things.”
“I commute too far for this job, I don’t have the energy.”
Towards the end of the relationship I was losing patience. I explained over and over how there is never a good time for anything. We always have to make the time.
Instead it was up to me to take care of him, and I did, or tried. But, I also had a new job, changed managers, and a commute.
I’d do his laundry for him, I’d cook the meals. I was the one who did the dishes and made sure we were always stocked with food, soap and toilet paper.
He once used the last paper towel and found the cupboard empty when he went to replace the roll. “We’re out of paper towels,” he informed me. Like I was the certified paper towel manager (I guess in all fairness, I had been silently designated as such).
I broke. “Then do something about it! You have an amazon account! You have legs! You know where the damn store is!”
“Why are you being so mean to me?” He cried.
I wasn’t trying to be mean. I just couldn’t be his everything. I couldn’t be his girlfriend, his therapist and his mother while also trying to take care of myself.
My seams were splitting.
He placed all his emotional load onto me, and considered himself too heavy to bear any of mine. I felt the weight of expectation.
Last year I gave a talk at a women and allies in tech event. This was only a few weeks after the New York Times published their piece on how Google paid Andy Rubin $90 million while keeping silent about a misconduct claim and the Google protest walkout. It’s the company I happen to work for.
There are many days and many times I’m proud to be a Google employee. These days were a little rougher than others.
I came home after the news broke and wrote my speech as tears rolled down my cheeks. I wrote about my frustrations, my fears and my hope for the future for women in tech. I rehearsed this talk, a lot, and I asked my ex for his feedback and opinion. My speech improved.
When the night came, I stood in front of my peers, my friends, people I admired. This talk was difficult for me to give. I was afraid what I would say would hurt my career.
But I do my best to never let fear silence me.
My ex told everyone it felt like he was up there with me. Like it was his speech. He bragged to everyone about how he helped.
I invited him and he took over. My experience as a woman in tech now belonged to him, a white male.
A few months after I left him I was able to place some of my thoughts on happiness into words. I touched a bit on my experience in our relationship. Shortly after that, I received the following text from him:
“I heard you posted a blog about the break up. That’s extremely hurtful. I don’t feel comfortable with you sharing only your side of the story. I’ve refrained from sharing my side publicly for your sake. You’ve publicly shamed me multiple times and I’ve remained silent about it. Please stop.”
There’s a few things I’d like to address.
I don’t feel comfortable with you sharing only your side of the story.
My side of the story is exactly that, mine. I’m entitled to share it with anyone and in any way.
Rebecca Solnit wrote a beautiful piece on silence; Silence and powerlessness go hand in hand — women’s voices must be heard. I thought my story might be able to help other women. Might open their eyes to things they were unable to see. To things I wasn’t able to see.
I don’t give a damn if my story makes you feel uncomfortable.
I’ve refrained from sharing my side publicly for your sake.
When it comes to breaking up a relationship, it quickly turns into a he said she said ordeal. This is definitely that.
If you ask my ex, he will probably tell you I hit him two nights before I left him.
I came home from a work event at midnight and he demanded I fix the broken vase. I had to be at a conference at eight am the next day. I didn’t have the energy to glue shards together.
He hovered over me, yelling that I didn’t love him. I couldn’t breathe.
I pushed him away. I guess I pushed him hard. He fell out of bed. If you consider that hitting someone, then yes, I hit him.
I was now the vase.
I was broken, too. I was a million and one tiny pieces that couldn’t possibly cradle him. I screamed, I cried, I flipped a table, I tore my hair out.
That was the night I burned.
You’ve publicly shamed me multiple times and I’ve remained silent about it.
This is about my experience. He can do what he wants with his story.
You can’t shame someone if they have nothing to be ashamed about.
Please stop.
I will never stop using my voice.
