This is something that’s hard to write about.
To start off 2009, in the middle of a heated argument, I punched through a door. Bruce-Lee’d a 12×4 inch panel out into the hall with my fist. While my strength surprised me, it was not one of my prouder moments in life. I don’t know if I’ve ever admitted this incident before. It has been something that has quietly weighed on me, making me question my emotional decision-making, making me more cautious about letting people get close to me.
I don’t think I’m a violent person by nature. But it scares me that the potential of violence is in all of us. I am high-strung, high-energy, and underneath everything I’m very intense, but I’m also very conscious about not wanting to hurt others. One of my greatest problems has always been hurting myself, taking things out on myself when I don’t have an outlet. When my parents used to fight and my dad would take out his frustration on us, I would lock myself in a dark closet and bang my head against the wall, or sit out in the rain, because it made me angry that I wasn’t strong enough, that I could be so easily afraid. It was like people who self-mutilate. When you can control the pain, there’s a relief. But it’s not healthy.
I thought I had resolved so many childhood issues over the years, achieved wisdom and more emotional balance, learned how to recognize situations and circumstances where I could put myself to have the best chance of success, until last year, when I’d felt so utterly backed into a corner, I lost it. The action was a reflection of my insides. It was probably a giant cry for help.
After it happened, I went and took a cold shower to cool down. I was so angry and disappointed in myself for losing my cool. He came in and said if I wanted him to leave he would, and I said fine because his effect on me terrified me. He got mad that I was kicking him out. It happened at my parents house, and I’d called my dad crying, so he sent my mom home, who was a goddess that day. She talked us down with the diplomacy of someone trying to defuse a bomb, while my dad waited in the driveway outside, in case he became violent. She and I both had to listen while he told her how hard he tries to put up with me because of how much he loved me, and I sat there and agreed about how wrong I was, but was so angry that he thought this was a forum to trash talk me to my own mother. Who the fuck does that? But she and I had agreed; his flight was the next day and it was about calming the situation so we could get him on a plane the next morning without an ugly incident (ie being axe murdered in our sleep. My mom told me the next day that no one slept well because everyone was nervous about him freaking out, knowing I didn’t want to be with him). To be honest, my dad wanted him out of the house. My mom sent me to Rie’s house 2 and a half hours away, while he stayed at our house. When I got there, Rie gave me ice for my hand, and I broke down and cried.
It happens, she said. It doesn’t mean you’re a bad person. I threw a laptop once, and I kicked a hole in the wall when I was so furious at Eric.
It was nice of her to say, but it didn’t make what I did any less appalling. How could things have come to a place where I could lose control that way? What made me so unable to walk away, when the situation, the entire relationship, had no way of coming out successfully, that it could push me to such an act of frustration and self-destruction? I’m a very intelligent person. But my emotions, my belief in people that with enough effort, with enough desire, things can always turn out, had clouded my judgment. In hindsight, I can see it very clearly. Something between us was toxic.
His flight was the next day anyway, so things were patched by then, as they always are, but it was over. When I came back from dropping him off at the airport, my dad called me into his office at work.
“I understand you were the one who put a hole through the door,” he said. He wasn’t angry; he was almost whimsical. I think he knew how bad I’d felt. I think what’d happened had made him sad, too. I said that was correct, it was me, and he told me that it’s not like me to do things like that. That it’s not who I am. And that before things get to that point, I have to walk away. I started crying again, I was so ashamed, and he told me it was okay. But that at some point, I have to start making decisions in my life that consider the long-term, and considering that no guy I’ve ever brought home has worked out, that maybe I should consider people more seriously before I get serious, and that I have to learn better to judge whether or not a situation is good for me by how it makes me feel.
I don’t know how the hell I had justified it in my own head, that a relationship with someone who consistently lied about his past and whose idea of a warm and fuzzy marriage talk was, “Even though you’re a nightmare, I still want to marry you.” That makes me look like an idiot. The only thing I can think of is that I can be single-minded about not letting people down. It’s important to me to fulfill my promises. And I had promised him up front, that I would accept him unconditionally. I think there’s a point where you’re not judging, and then a point where you’ve just straight up lost the plot and are being irrational. With my good intentions, I’d delved into this relationship, wanting to see my intentions through until it became an irrational existence.
When I’d first moved to Seattle, I’d met an engineer and we got into a long, interesting conversation about life paths, etc. He asked me what happened in my last relationship, and I told him that it didn’t end well. That I’d met a guy who knew I believed in destiny, etc., and he worked really hard to make me believe that we were meant to be together, but even from the beginning I had my doubts. But it was flattering for a guy to want so badly to be with me, and I thought, why not explore, until it got so complicated and I felt so responsible for his happiness that it became very difficult to extricate myself. It ended disastrously.
“You know what this means, right?” he asked. “Next time, if you don’t want someone trying to fake being the one you want, don’t tell him up front what you’re looking for. Let him show you who he is and then you can decide if he fits.” It was sage advice from a stranger.
It took me a long time to get over everything. It took me a long time to trust myself again, that who I’d become in that relationship, all those things I’d felt near the end aren’t really me, even though there’s always the potential for it to be brought out. Human beings are not pretty under duress, but it’s a matter of never letting yourself get to that point, never letting yourself get trapped into a corner where it feels like life or death. I had to learn to discern situations and people beforehand, to trust my instincts regarding whether or not something was safe. If anything doesn’t feel right, I have to let it go, tread carefully. This is probably why I don’t want to deal with dating anymore. I would rather get to know people under situations where intense emotions aren’t involved–as friends, as coworkers, as neighbors–for a good long time before I get involved with them in any way. My protectiveness of my freedom is heightened, my tolerance for anything that feels like manipulation or a trap is a hair trigger. I can feel good about myself again and navigate life confidently as long as my boundaries are strong and on my terms. But I would rather miss opportunities than allow me to lose myself that way again.