CONTENT WARNING: The following contains descriptions of disordered eating.
When people ask about my dating history, I say I’ve never had a serious partner. That’s only partially true. It’s a lot easier, faster, more socially acceptable, to say I’ve been single forever, than to disclose how I’m just now getting over our 11-year relationship.
We found each other out of the blue at 16, when I was recovering from head injuries in high school. You were ambitious, driven, and loyal. I was attracted to your wisdom, your mysterious allure. We made a pact to pursue in secrecy. It was so good, especially that first year: I got better, stronger, prettier, from your guidance. I excelled in school, and even went to prom, graduation, and Latvia for a singing competition. We stayed strong in college, but the surroundings, people, and environment were drastically different. You asked me to make changes and adapt to preserve what we had.
Eat this, not that. Not too much. Between 11 and 6.
I followed your guidance. I drank four cups of coffee. I ate twice a day, mostly sweets because those were now allowed, but only in place of actual meals. I exercised every day to sweat out the jitters. I walked for hours. I stayed up until 3 am, and woke up at 8.
This kept you satisfied. We remained strong for a while, until it wasn’t enough. I couldn’t coast the way I had freshman year. School got more demanding. I got more involved. I made other friends. You told me you could feel me drifting away, not making enough time for you. I was finding love in other shapes and forms, threatening our foundation. I reassured you, telling you you were my best friend. I didn’t have to lie, because I didn’t know a life without you. I thought I wanted to keep what we had, but really, I didn’t know any different. I was willing to make more changes, to give up more of my body and time, to keep the fire burning. I was willing to show up in new ways.
Even when your asks got more bold, and more frequent.
Sneak food. Eat everything in sight, then get rid of it all. And all those stresses and fears building within you…they’ll go away. I promise you, you’ll feel better.
The requests seemed ridiculous at first, but you asked me to trust you. And the more I engaged, the more I understood why. It was a rush like nothing I’d ever experienced. It was full-body glee of having everything I wanted, and no consequences…
Your asks became demands, hands around my neck, tightening gently at first. You were all I thought about. We went from being together once a week to daily, until, and by the time I graduated, we were together all day, every day. We were the only thing. Other obligations were no longer a priority. Nothing else interested me; anything outside of us was background. At 22, six years in, I didn’t know any different, couldn’t picture a reality outside of or better than our fantasy.
I wanted to actually experience life as an adult when I moved back to San Francisco and started working after graduating. It was exciting to officially start life, move into my first apartment, work in my first-ever full-time job, and start making new friends. I tried to tell you I wanted to give this life a real chance, and asked that we consider taking a breather, or at least, least pump the breaks. I thought, prayed, that the new environment would also change us, that we’d strike a balance. But your grip only grew stronger. You explained how the ambiguity made you nervous, but in our world, there was comfort and security. I understood you when you said the real, adult world was scary and lonely. I loved the way you consoled and coached me through my intense job, running a half marathon, going to bars and clubs. You were there for me when I got hit by a car, and moved back in with my parents during the pandemic. It was all under the covers though, behind closed doors, spoken and known by no one.
We could have stayed that way forever, and I could have been happy, as long as we had each other. But it suddenly struck me that the things that brought so much color and vibrancy to my life had now faded to gray. I no longer wanted to see my friends; I could hear your voice in my ear telling me they were draining and disappointing. I refused to eat in front of my family, unless I made myself sick after, like you taught me. I didn’t walk the dog or watch TV with my parents, because that was precious time away from you. You were no longer the center of my universe; you were its entirety. It never even dawned on me to have one, because I was already in one with you.
And then, I saw us on TV. Watching The Crown, reluctantly taking an hour away to make time with my parents, I saw it in Diana. I had no idea it had happened to her, too. I felt my temperature drop, my head pound, as we watched her life and secrets unfold. Did my parents know what had happened to her was happening to me? Did they know about us?
I knew what we’d built was not normal, but it was the first time I saw its lasting impacts on someone else. The secrecy, the guilt, the way she turned into a shell of herself. The way others knew and talked about it, despite her efforts to keep it to herself. I saw the hurt and desperation in her eyes. I learned she got out of, and overcame it, and imagined for the first time a world where this could possibly happen for me. Perhaps I, too, deserved better, and knew the only way to do so would be to end ties and start putting myself first.
And so began the process of admitting this was a problem. This, this world we operated in, was not normal, was not healthy, and was similarly turning me into a shell of my former self. Once I acknowledged this, I discovered I wanted to change. I didn’t want the world to stay gray, to live in a tiny box with you forever. I had to let go of us, to confront you first, and then share what I’d been through with people I loved. I told my dearest friend first, who gave me the reassurance and support to keep going. Then my doctors, then my parents, neither of whom cried as I bawled, reading aloud a confessional I’d wrote them each. Only then could I begin the process of letting go, of making a clean break, in order to heal and move forward.
It’s been almost three years since I started mending. But it’s not so easy to let you go. With some distance, though, I can see it for what it was and wasn’t. It’s for the best to go separate ways, but it’s hard to cut ties with you. I loved you so deeply, and you loved me. We were each other’s everythings for so long. There was love, joy, passion and loyalty. You did so much for me, got me through the most difficult and isolating times of my life, even if it broke me in new ways. I was scared to know what life is like without you; so much of my life, my surroundings, my choices, even my other relationships, were impacted by who I was with you, and trying to figure out who I am coming away from you.
Of course I miss and yearn for the comfort and security you provided. Sometimes it’s still disorienting trying to operate without you, to learn how to walk to the subway, how to engage at work, how to exercise and eat and be with my friends, when you’re no longer there with me. How to come home from a tough day, knowing you’re there for me, to embrace me and tell me what to do. To see that by escaping into you, I’m really just escaping myself.
It’s lonely not to rebound, to immediately repress the pain and discomfort with the first shiny new thing I see. It’s even more difficult to fight the urge to relapse, the urge to call and wonder how you’re doing, and see if we can give things another try. To not let the blue skies and pink clouds overshadow the things I sacrificed, the person I both became and prevented myself from becoming. The adventures I could have experienced, the relationships I could have refined, the time I could have used and turned into something beautiful.
I can’t change the past. I can’t undo the years spent with you. Nor would I, because you helped turn me into the person I am today. The things I could have done are things I’m able to do now. It just took me a little longer to get there. A world can exist where I’m both grateful for you, and grateful to be done with you.