Well, I did it. I left after 10 years together. Even now, that feels like a surprisingly short sentence for something I spent a year and a half trying to decide.
For seven of those years, we were emotionally and physically incompatible. That’s a long stretch of a relationship to spend missing something central to it. I knew I was unhappy, but knowing and leaving turned out to be two very different things. I stayed in the space between them for a while.
He said he didn’t see it coming. That was difficult to hear after so much time spent contemplating it. For me, the decision had been approaching slowly. For him, apparently, it arrived all at once.
He said he had taken me for granted. He said this was a nightmare he couldn’t wake up from. He also said he had never wanted to be married in the first place. There was a lot to take in, including things that would have been useful to understand much earlier.
Then he told me he wouldn’t fight for the relationship because he knew he wouldn’t change. I appreciated his candor. It hurt, but it also meant there wasn’t another promise for me to weigh or another possible future to spend months considering.
We decided to remain friends. Friendship was the part of our relationship that worked, and by the end, it was about all we had left. Keeping that feels possible, even as the rest ends.
I’m sad. I’m relieved. And I’m excited about the future again, which is a feeling I’m very happy to have back. None of those feelings has politely waited for the others to finish.
Special thanks are due to my tattoo artist, who yelled at me about getting my life back while repeatedly putting a needle into me. An unusual setting for a pep talk, but she made her position clear: stop hesitating.
I did it, girl.
