I sat on the couch next to him with my hands buried in my lap, my eyes fixated on the floor and away from his. With pursed lips and tight shoulders, I continued to sit quietly, nervously—questioning if I really had the guts to tell the truth. My body made the first move. I kneeled on the ground in front of him, held his hands and finally looked up at him—my eyes saying what I could not. He knew. And his eyes began to water and so did mine until they turned into sobs. I felt sick to my stomach.
“I love you…”
Afraid to finish my sentence, I kept repeating, “I love you…” until a small window opened within me and the words spilled out:
“I love you and I don’t want to be in this relationship anymore.”
I thought about this sentence precisely. Practiced it. It wasn’t I love you, BUT…because "but" belittles the love I still very much have for him. It was an "and" because both were true. I loved him and I wanted to leave. And the sentence was short because wanting to leave is enough.
I’ve been through this before. I thought (hoped) that next time I'd get it right.
But I believe that there is a deep knowing that lives inside every one of us. A place that whispers what you know to be true, which oftentimes is too painful to hear. So we drown it out, whether with TV, social media, relationships—you name it, there are so many more sexier things than the Truth. We find ways to avoid it because once we know it, we have to do something about it. And doing something about the truth often means changing your mind, changing your self, changing your life.
We don’t tell the truth because we think it’s easier, perhaps even kinder, not to. We don’t want to hurt the people we love, disappoint those who count on us, and shock the people who’ve seen us through so much. But a truth untold becomes heavy and big and silent with time. Like a gray backdrop that you can no longer make out, but very much feel all around you.
Some of the most vivid memories I have of my mom are ones of her sitting at our living room table. In these memories she is stuck—literally at the table but also in her life. She used to storm out of the house in the evenings, gone for hours on foot to places I don’t know where, but she’d return, defeated, angry, trapped. As a young girl, I saw this and must have in some way, deep in my bones, vowed to not end up like her. When I was young, this drive was a judgement of her. Today I look to those memories with empathy and see my life as an opportunity to stand on her shoulders and reach for things she never could have imagined.
The last time I left a relationship, Mixed was in its infancy and I was dead broke. I couldn’t afford to live in New York on my own, so I had to go back home for a bit. I remember lugging all my inventory and supplies across the country with no way of knowing how I’d get back on my feet, only that I would. Today, I can afford to live alone in an apartment I love, which has been a goal of mine ever since I moved to this city over a decade ago. I saw the ways in which financial dependence made my mom’s life small and understood the importance of supporting myself financially—not just enough to live, but to thrive. As a woman, it simply affords you more options and freedom to pursue the life you deeply desire.
Learning how to listen to the truth and acting upon it is as soon as possible is probably the single best piece of advice for your becoming. But advice is a funny thing. Through all this, my friends have only been mirrors. Never telling me what to do, but simply reflecting back the conversations that we’ve shared. They listened to me and gave me permission to know what was true and act upon it.
You also know what is true. And you are not cruel or deranged or unlovable for knowing it. Listen to yourself. And if it helps—take this as your permission to do something about it.
~Nasrin
~Nasrin