This is the first year in decades that I didn’t really look forward to Valentine’s Day. I don’t think 2014 or 2015 really count, because frankly most of those years are kind of a blur.
Every bit of crap that he was, there were times when the ex actually did try. And part of why I’m not looking forward to VD, or any other supposed “romantic” shit is because it was really those little bits of sunshine I lived off for so long.
But, I want it. I yearn for it, too.
It’s more about wanting those little bits of sunshine, but not just one day a year, not just any time I might be looking like I’m “coming to my senses.”
And it’s not about anyone currently in my life either.
It’s about being in a place where I’m acknowledging that I never received what I really deserve. That every time he would wonderingly say, “I don’t know why you stay with me.” I would hear that as “I love you.” That that little watered-down ray pushing through the clouds was somehow “romantic” and “loving.”
It’s not. It’s about him doing whatever the hell he wanted and apologizing afterwards like that makes it all better.
The last I saw him, back in September of 2015, after the divorce was final — with a friend of mine standing by — he played that last bit of emotional manipulation. That he stood there sadly, and said: “I’m sorry.” Like, somehow he expected that it would work yet again. That if somehow he put that “little lost boy” look on his face it would make me turn my back on the divorce or the pain that I went through even trying to get to the point where I could even consider divorce.
And the fact that he had previously admitted that for most of our time together he had me wrapped around his little finger, that somehow finally realizing decades of emotional manipulation would just somehow disappear.
Maybe it’s wanting something I can’t ever have — not because someone else can’t give it to me, but because I’m not sure I can accept it with a trusting heart.
No, this year ……… I’m angry.
I’m not angry at him. Hell, it’s gotten to the point where I don’t think about him constantly, just when another stumbling block rears its ugly head. I’m not angry at anyone else either — including myself.
I’m angry at the situation. At the lies we tell each other. At the fact that certain people end up in certain situations because somehow we think aren’t “good enough” for something better. Or that some of us are encouraged to feel superior enough to somehow “save” someone else.
I’m angry at the stereotypes that encourage young heterosexual women to look at the “bad boy” type, and feel that we can “fix” him — when in reality, NO ONE can fix anyone but themselves.
I’m angry at the stereotype that if you are alone on Valentine’s Day that somehow you are a sad loser who doesn’t deserve anything better in their lives.
I’m angry that we are taught that sacrificing absolutely EVERYTHING for love is somehow a hero’s journey. That giving up what makes you YOU is somehow morally superior to developing your own strength, and developing a health balance between yourself and others. That humility is essentially a way to say: “Please, go ahead and walk all over me like a doormat.”
I’m angry that in order to be accepted by others I have to hide some of who I am, simply because they won’t understand why I don’t act like the typical “fat chick” so that when I DO show my full self they respond with fear and trepidation. They label me with “bitch,” “intimidating,” “unapproachable” or just simply “opinionated.”
I’m going to take that anger, and sit with it for a while. I refuse to let it, or any other emotions (like fear) destroy my life. I refuse to become a bitter, jaded old woman. I’m choosing to work through it so that I can be a WHOLE person, not just a 2-dimensional one.