Feels Like the End

Some time around my twenty-first birthday, I started to recognize that this relationship wasn't normal -- or healthy. I started to think about what my life would be like without Javier in it.

I'd slide open the closet door, look at my side, then look at his and let myself imagine what it would be like to have the whole thing to myself. A shiver would run through me, and I'd quickly slide it closed, just in case he came into the room and managed to read my mind.

I would write about it in my journal -- a Word document on a floppy disk I hid in my parents' office -- imagining what my life might look like without him in it. The places I could go, the things I could do. It was both exhilarating and terrifying. 

I was afraid to want it, so I never spoke about it. Hell, I was afraid to write about it in my journal -- not so much because I thought he might read it, but because saying the words, even to myself, made it real. And making it real meant having to do something, and I knew I wasn't ready.

So I went about my life, such as it was, getting unhappier by the day. He was growing more and more distant, which made me -- the very well programmed and conditioned part at least -- try harder to make him happy. He only grew colder, leaving me feeling desperate, frustrated, and terribly alone.

Late one night I sat in bed reading while he played his beloved video game. We were a foot and a half away from each other but the distance between us felt like a chasm. I couldn't take it. I just wanted to go to sleep.

Knowing I wouldn't be able to sleep with the video game going, I decided to leave him to it and try to sleep on the couch

I headed out of the room, then turned back, standing in the doorway. "Let me know when you're done, okay?" 

"What for?" His eyes never left the TV screen.

"So I can come back in and sleep."

He shrugged. "I really don't give a shit if you come back in here or not."

I couldn't tell you if more words were exchanged, if I stood there in stunned silence, or if I simply walked away. I only remember being curled up on the couch, sobbing, feeling like my insides had been ripped out. 

I couldn't take the pain, so I went upstairs to my parents' bedroom to find my mom. It was dark, but I knew she was awake, so I staggered into the room, breath hitching, hoping I wouldn't wake my dad.

Too late.

I told them what happened, and my mom held onto me while I cried. "He doesn't love me," I whimpered, as though it were a real surprise. I knew he didn't love me. But knowing he didn't care...that hurt unlike anything I'd ever felt before. 

I told them I knew it was time to break up with Javier, but I didn't know how. My dad, sitting on the edge of the bed, grumbled, "I can make it real easy."

"No, Daddy, don't, " I pleaded. I knew damn well my dad wasn't about to just go downstairs, yell "GET OUT" and wait for Javier to vacate the premises. What he had in mind involved violence and a hefty prison term. 

I didn't want my father in prison, and I didn't want any violence. But more than either of those things, I didn't want anyone else fighting my fight. 

The relationship was mine to end. I was ready.

Unfortunately, I had no idea how hard it would be to end it.