In December 2015 I went through a traumatic breakup experience.
It was one of those situations where I ‘lacked courage’ and failed to have the really hard conversation and speak my brutal truth.
I didn’t have the courage because I was afraid of hurting her — and the longer I went without telling her the truth the more the anxiety built and the harder it became to have that conversation — and she stayed with me, knowing she was not getting what she needed from a partner but was too afraid to address it or ask for more.
So, because neither of us could show enough courage to talk about the shit that was going on between us, the relationship basically self-imploded from the inside and it got really messy.
The aftermath of the breakup was a difficult one for myself, both emotionally and psychologically. So much so that I spent the first six months of the breakup going through intensive therapy and counselling so I could really decode the events of...
I’ll admit something...
I’m usually the last one to move on after a breakup. At least relationships where I’d actually fallen for the person. I rarely fall but when I fall, I fall fast, I fall hard, and it’s hard for me to get back up after I fall.
For this reason...
I’m usually the one still reeling after the breakup, tending to my wounds and processing the breakup while I watch my ex update her profile picture with someone new.
"I’ve been in love four times in my life. I’ve also been heartbroken four times as well. Go figure, right?"
I’m good at not giving a shit. I can not give a shit with the best of them. But every time I’ve ever given a shit in a relationship, I’ve eaten shit. Metaphorically of course.
Interestingly, there is a pattern that has presented itself.
The first girl I was in love with broke it off with me because she met a guy who made it clear to her that her and I were not the right fit together.