Walking Dumpster Fire

When you leave a tumultuous relationship and start one that is actually, what’s the word? Healthy? It can leave your brain going, uh BRO, what’s happening here?!

My on-and-off-on-and-off until the end of time relationship was with a very insecure man. He spewed hateful words at me when he lost his temper, then denied ever saying such words. He physically pushed me a couple of times and then blamed me because “I got in the way.” He shit on me whenever anything good happened in my life. He would shut down for days on end, never uttering a word in my direction. He kept score, and I could never score high enough. He would tell me things like where my fat pockets were (cheeks, ass, legs, and back of arms to be precise, in case I wanted to bring back eating disorders). He hurt me in ways I can’t describe without breaking down. 

It was incredibly fierce, which is why I kept going back. The highs and lows were my drugs. His warped talons were designed for my back. And after every fight, after every screaming match, he would clean it up by gently laying my lifeless body down, holding onto me like our lives depended on it, whispering how much he loved me. Clenching my teeth, I would think: This is love. This is love? 

Yes, said my little monster, this is love.

And even though I was becoming someone I didn’t like or recognize, at least I had my drugs. Because one day, he would see me, right? One day, I would be worth it. One day. 

Until one day, I found myself bawling on his chest. I kept repeating the words, I feel like I am disappearing. That’s exactly how it felt. I could see the core parts of me that make me a Carrie Killian dissipating. He did nothing but hand me a box of Kleenex. He and I both knew that was the only tool he had. He was broken, and so he broke me. I knew that night, this relationship was going to kill me. Not metaphorically, not figuratively, but actually end my life. 

I found myself on my knees praying for something different, anything but this living hell. I was so sick. We were so sick. 

But one core parts of me that stayed is my fight. I would fight for myself. I would fight for my life. I started doing the work in therapy. The real work, breaking down and realizing I was using him to heal some pretty ancient wounds. He would never be my healer. I spoke out and found my voice again. The little bits of me were coming back. I started to see my worth. I finally walked away. I am still licking my wounds, but I am so lucky I got out alive. 

Then I met someone. Well, I didn’t really meet him. I already knew of him, and mutual friends of ours tried setting us up while I was still in my rollercoaster of a shit relationship, It went horrifically. I wish I could blame him, but no, it was all me. He wasn’t my drug. Why the hell am I here? He is kind? Get the fuck out of here. Leave me to my mess and misery, please, and hand me another drink.

However, I would often see him around, and we would talk. My dear friend would continue to say kind words about him. I saw how he treated people. I saw how he treated me, with kindness. Not the kindness to get into my pants. Not the kindness that loves bombs, then leaves you for dead. Actually fucking kindness. This. Is. New.

Now, old me would laugh and be like, dude, we can’t date nice and genuine guys. We like games because we like to win. We keep score, because then how do you know who is winning and who is losing? We need validation like oxygen, and how can you beg for that when it’s not being taken away? We need someone to point out all of our flaws, so when they “compliment” us, it’s like a ray of fucking sunshine. We need fireworks on day one, because we like the illusion. That’s the kind of guy we need. Guys who are consistent and keep their word? BAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! That’s cute. 

However, after 41 years, and you find yourself chasing after the same type of narcissistic asshats, you think, hmmmm, maybe we can date genuine guys. Maybe there really is something here. So I took one small step forward and started dating the kind guy. 

There are no games with him. There is no second-guessing. It’s almost terrifying if it wasn’t so incredible. No one has seen me like he sees me. I don’t have to hide. There is no zipping up my messy and pretending I am someone else. He sees the mess, and doesn’t turn away. It’s gripping. 

My friends adore him. My dog picks him. My kids love him. I actually can’t find a single person who says, ‘Meh, he’s okay. He is liked and loved by many (actually, if you know him and hate him, please let me know, so I can put that in my back pocket for a later time. SORRY, old habits die hard). My hardshell softens just ever so. I am happy. I am so happy that I finally understand the notion of wanting others to be happy. Those who have hurt me. Those who have betrayed me. I want them all to be happy. Even narcissists who breadcrumb as their side hustle. Be happy, dude. 

However, I am a creature of self-sabotage. There is a part of me that enjoys the pain. Listening to songs that break my heart. Reviewing what once was. Sneaking into the past. Pushing the envelope a little too hard. I keep matches in case this bitch has to burn the whole thing to the ground. 

And then I almost did. 

We took our first trip together, a quick visit to Austin to see some of his close friends. There was a part of me that was still hanging on to something. This was becoming too good. Too easy. No one smiles this much without a come-down. The other shoe has to drop at some point. People don’t hang out together for days on end, and constantly enjoy each other’s company like this, right?

So, of course, I pick a fight in front of his friends. With little explanation, I told him I didn’t feel well and was going back to the hotel. I didn’t wait for his response; I turned on my heel and bolted, walking as fast as I could down the streets of Austin. Fight or flight? I choose a flight every time. I hear him calling after me. I kept walking. Faster. My brain is used to this. This is its default. It’s on repeat, yelling LET’S GO! Let’s get on a flight, we can go back to our drugs. Yes, there was pain, but at least it was painfully consistent. This whole thing was a bad idea, I told you it wouldn’t work, I hear my little monster say.

And then he is in front of me. I tell him to go off with his friends, I am fine (I AM CLEARLY NOT FINE). He is mad. I have never seen him mad. So, I grit my teeth and ball up my fists and wait for the onslaught of insults to occur. That I am crazy, I am too much, this was a mistake, I am not worth it, no one wants me, I am nothing. 

There is buzzing in my head as I wait for him to say these things. I have my match in my hand, ready to flick it to the ground so this whole thing can go up in flames. Try me. 

But he doesn’t say any of this. He looks at me and goes, “Carrie, what the hell? We are a team. If you are upset, we have to talk about it. It’s you and me. You and me. I meant it when I said it’s us vs the world.”

And just like that, my match goes out. We are a team. I say nothing and stare at him. I have all the words to say, but I can’t make them come out. I don’t have the right tools for this. Where is my box of Kleenex? I can tell my saying nothing is hurting him, as he angrily walks away. I stand there and realize what I am doing. I am ruining the best thing that has walked into my life. I catch up to him, grab his arm, and do something I have never, not once, done in the middle of an argument (because that would be not winning), and say, I am sorry. I repeated it again, making sure he heard me. Making sure I heard myself. 

He explains that he is still upset and why he is upset. I say I understand, but I have the tiniest smirk on my face, because no one has talked me off the ledge like this. Dude has got moxie. We walked back to the hotel, together, and had one of the best talks I have ever experienced in a relationship. I told him my fears and my shortcomings. That I push, but I am so tired of pushing. I want this to be real, because if I let go, then what?

He calms my fears and tells me there is no shoe waiting to drop. This is real, we are real, and this is who he is. And he is so genuinely wonderful that I can’t believe I am his. I hear the crumbling of my walls, and I finally believe. This is love. 

So dear baby Jesus, I will ask you once: Please, don’t let me ruin this. 

Love, 

Carrie