fifteen minutes

It’s tough when Instagram informs you that your worst ex-boyfriend attended a “Hotties for Harris” party. 

In the same way that I feel compelled to scroll the subreddit r/whatsthisbug once a day, just to scare myself with images of bedbugs, I sometimes surrender to the urge to unblock this ex and check in. Yep, bedbugs still exist and are out there derailing people’s lives! And yep, the man who did the most damage to me emotionally still builds his entire internet persona around calling out hypocrisy and being a good, progressive guy! You can trust this guy! He is wearing an ‘I Vote For Abortion’ tee shirt!

I broke up with this ex, whom I’ll call X, for the first time after spending Thanksgiving with his family. I felt like his parents really seemed to like me, which highlighted how much X did not seem to like me at all. He often treated me in ways I wouldn’t treat my worst acquaintance. I once asked X to hang out, since he was my boyfriend, and his response was something like “if you want to, that’s fine, but I’m crammed with work”.

I truly believed X would not care when I broke up with him - I thought he would be relieved, because my feelings and expectations seemed like a constant nuisance to his pursuit of twitter fame. Actually, “nuisance” is a generous term for what X seemed to think of me. He more often treated me like a malevolent force, purposely out to get him.

I once spilled on a towel in X’s apartment.

Yes, I repeat, spilled on a towel.

The moment I marred the terry cloth with my guacamole, I knew that it would be a problem and anticipated X’s reaction.

The spill was (obviously) an accident, but when I told X, he received it as a personal attack I had conjured up to hurt him. He shut down from me emotionally for days afterward. At this time, his apartment was actually, technically, our apartment because we had decided together, after many in depth conversations over many months, that I would move in.

It still felt like his apartment because, as soon as I started to unpack my belongings, X balked and said he needed me to “slow down” and made judgmental comments about the art I wanted to hang on the walls, even though his own decor included a giant screen print of Sean Spicer that was supposed to be ironic, which is fine, for like, shtick, but I don’t necessarily want to live inside a political comedy bit.

In the first few months after the move, I began to feel like I was living with a stranger. One night, X and I got into an argument and he stood up mid-conversation and started doing the dishes. He carried on in total silence, like we’d never been talking at all. I asked what was going on and he screamed at me, his face contorted in an expression I did not recognize. I felt myself suddenly engulfed in that specific, echoing kind of aloneness that can only occur when you’re inches away from someone else, but distinctly know that if you needed help, they would be annoyed rather than concerned.

While sharing a space with X, I could not avoid overhearing how happy and charismatic he sounded on the phone and on his work zoom calls. He would laugh and make jokes and tell animated stories, then disconnect and return to the cold, sulking roommate I’d become accustomed to.

Eventually, I moved out, hoping it would give us some space, and save the relationship. When I told X I planned on moving out, he acted surprised and confused, and I felt even more alone. He coldly said he was “sorry I felt the need” to leave the apartment. All of the warmth of the first few months of our connection had officially dissipated…

… Until I broke up with him, a few months later, MUCH to the joy and relief of my close friends and family. Even my Dad, with whom I rarely discuss matters of the heart or anything deeper than work and whatever documentary he just watched, texted me that I had done “the right thing for all the right reasons. You deserve someone who wants to spend every spare moment with you. Like me and Bowie.” (Bowie is his dog) 

Everyone was happy after the breakup, especially me, because as soon as I broke up with X, he launched a campaign to get me back, which felt like he finally wanted me again and my unhealed inner child took a break from her The Sims 2: Pets game to scream moremoremoremoremoremoremoremore.

X sent me DoorDashes every morning with my favorite foods. He made promises and appointments with therapists. He made me spotify playlists and sent me long emails saying all the things I had always wanted him to say about how much he appreciated me and loved me and wanted to be with me. 

I let the DoorDashes keep coming, enjoyed every donut and ice cream pint, all the while knowing I would OF COURSE let him back in. It wasn’t even a question. I did not love myself enough to believe my Dad and others when they told me I deserved better. So, I met up with X on New Years Day and had a boyfriend again within hours.

FAST-FORWARD »

Four months later, X and I drove to Philly on a Thursday for X’s best friend’s wedding. The wedding itself would be in a different, more rural part of Pennsylvania that Saturday, but there was a welcome party in Philly on Thursday and X had to do some Philly activity with the groomsmen on Friday. 

X said he would handle the accommodations and, since he was a thirty-five year-old adult at the time, I trusted him to do so. 

We arrived where we would be staying: at his friend’s friend’s house - meaning the home of a strange man I did not know at all. The man had recently inherited the house from his deceased grandmother and EVERYTHING of hers appeared to remain in its place. The guest bedroom we were assigned had a four post antique bed that creaked with the slightest of movements and a musty floral quilt bedspread. Since an alarming majority of adult men don’t even know you’re supposed to wash a duvet cover, I could only assume the quilt had not known soap since the grandmother’s lifetime. 

I said something to X, assuming he would be human enough to admit the house was spooky and the arrangements were slightly comical. X widened his eyes at me, oozing judgment, and said my reaction “concerned him” because we had such different standards for what is OK when traveling. 

X did not trust me or respect me enough to acknowledge my experience or to communicate his own. Instead of expressing that maybe he felt hurt that I didn’t like his friend’s friend’s house, that he felt defensive of the friend’s friend or he felt like he’d failed in plan-making, he just kept saying that my reaction “concerned him”. My internal codependent monologue screamed “yeah, well it concerns me that you’re avoidant and outright cruel to me whenever we’re alone, but as soon as we get in front of other people you act like the life of the party yet here I am STILL STAYING WITH YOU, so maybe you can get over me preferring a hotel to a stranger’s dead grandmother’s house…..”

On Thursday night, we attended the rehearsal dinner, which was really fun and great. I really LOVED the couple that was getting married and would soon discover I also loved the friend’s friend/man who owned the spooky house. He was kind and funny and accommodating. He brought me a sweater to dinner because he remembered I mentioned forgetting mine. I thought about whether X would ever anticipate my needs it that way, and then I pushed the thought out of my consciousness.

At dinner, my nerves tensed a little when one of the other guests made a joke about me being out of X’s league (no humble brag intended, this is simply what happened). I knew that might make X insecure and that he might not be able to process that insecurity and therefore would likely take it out on me somehow. This thought process felt normal to me. 

Finally, it was SATURDAY and we drove two hours away to a cute woodsy town in Pennsylvania where the actual wedding would take place. We were staying in a hotel (THANK GOD) and went there first, then I drove X and a bunch of the groomsmen another half hour away to the actual wedding venue to get ready, then I drove back to the hotel to get ready myself, and planned to take the shuttle from the hotel back to the wedding venue that evening. 

I took an everything shower, did my hair and makeup with Real Housewives playing from my laptop, and things were going smoothly…. until I tried on the outfit I planned to wear. I hated the way my body looked in the dress. I tried on the backup outfit I brought, and noticed I had a bacne breakout. The dress I hated covered the bacne but the dress I hated less did not cover it enough. I began to sweat, my heart racing, as I switched outfits twice more. Then, I had to fix my makeup because of the sweat. I looked at the time, and realized I had missed both the early shuttle and the late shuttle. I can still picture the red digits on the hotel clock, informing me I had lost track of time.

I got in the car and drove. As Waze led me trough the unfamiliar backroads of the town, I noted there was a road closure - maybe I could mention that to X to explain my lateness. When I reached a 4-6 mile stretch without turns, I called a friend, still in a panic. She urged me to calm down and said she would be pissed at her partner for being late to the wedding but it was not a huge deal. She did not understand, because I had not fully disclosed to her, that everything was a huge deal with X, he once gave me the silent treatment for not watching a video he made quickly enough on the day that Britney Spears’ court testimony was released. My friend also said her first response would be concern, wondering if her partner was OK or if something happened to keep them from arriving on time. I thought that my safety would likely never cross X’s mind, then I pushed that thought out of my consciousness.

I arrived at the wedding ceremony fifteen minutes late. 

I immediately noted that a huge group of guests was also late because of the road closure, so a bunch of us arrived at the same time… maybe X would not even be able to tell that I had missed the shuttle… we all got there just in time for the vows.

The ceremony ended and I ran into one of the other groomsmen’s wives and she told me she had not even realized I came in late. I felt better as I filed her statement away as evidence to mention if X was as angry with me as I expected him to be.

When I finally found X in the crowd, I was relieved to see a smile on his face. I immediately stated how so so so sooooo deeply sorry I was for being late and he just casuallly asked “oh yeah, what happened?” I thought about the dresses, the bacne, the road closure, the late shuttle, how I made it for the vows, I thought about how I had done a lot for the wedding already, I mean we were fully seventy-two hours into this thing and I only missed fifteen minutes, I thought about all the evidence I had felt the need to collect to reduce any punishment from X, to reason with him, someehow, but instead of listing excuses, I decided to simply say: “I lost track of time”. X appeared to let it go.

During cocktail hour, X was in his element - he LOVED schmoozing with strangers. I followed him around while he made jokes and small talk and told anyone who would listen the story of how the name of the wedding’s signature cocktail actually related back to HIM.

It was only in the sparing moments, when X and I had a direct, quiet interaction - when a slow song played, when he passed me the butter at dinner, when the wedding photographer asked if we would take a photo for the polaroid guestbook - that I sensed the truth. X was angry. A punishment was coming. 

I decided to take a page out of X’s sordid book and compartmentalize. I decided to enjoy the wedding while I could. I joined the other groomsmen’s wives on the dancefloor and found the friend’s friend there and he was one of the most skilled dancers I’ve ever had the pleasure of witnessing. I befriended the groom’s mother. She was a delight. We all had a blast. I took a million pictures and videos on the dancefloor. 

At one point, someone mentioned in front of X that they were a Bachelor Nation fan and my insides clenched, knowing what was likely to follow. This person heard that one of my ex-boyfriends won The Bachelorette and wanted to talk about it. I wanted to talk about it too, because it’s one of the most interesting things to ever happen to me, but I knew it made X insecure when I discussed it and this interaction would only increase the emotional reaction I was already anticipating from him.

At the end of the night, I drove a bunch of the groomsmen back to our hotel for the after party. X did not speak to me on the ride home. When we arrived back to the hotel, I asked X if he wanted to go to the after party in the lobby bar, but he just mumbled that he didn’t know and beelined for the elevator. I hurried to keep up with him.

Back in our room, he immediately collapsed on the bed and closed his eyes. I felt relief - thinking maybe he was not mad at me after all, he was just drunk!

I took my makeup off and changed into pajamas, sat on the couch and started texting pictures from the dancefloor to the group chat X and I shared with the bride and groom. X’s phone vibrated on the nightstand as I sent the photos. He opened his eyes to say “can you stop?” in a tone saturated with enough venom to confirm that yes, I was in fact being punished the way I was when I spilled on the towel, or when my tattoo appointment ran overtime and I had to back out of attending Soledad O’Brien’s holiday party with him.

I was set to receive a total emotional shut out for days, even weeks to come. I was expected to accept his cruel tone and his distance from me, to wait and then go with the flow whenever he decided to move on and pretend nothing had ever happened. I knew how this worked. I got into bed, as I had many times before, next to a person filled with more vitriol than love towards me, ready to settle into the echoing aloneness.

As soon as my face hit the pillow, X stood up. He walked away from the bed and said he was going to the after party. I got up, too, saying I needed a minute to change back out of my pajamas, but X said no. He was going to go to the party alone, just for a bit. He left.

Reality crept in, like an extended release stimulant. All of the thoughts I had pushed out of my consciousness for two plus years came roaring to the surface. X would never think of my needs without being asked or begged to. X would never put my safety and peace of mind before his ego. X would leave me alone in a hotel room at one in the morning, expecting me to simmer in shame. X wanted me to wonder what I had done to deserve this. He believed I had actally done something to deserve this, and suddenly, I knew for a fact that I did not deserve this.

I curled into fetal position in the hotel bed, overcome with the feeling that I was living through one of those moments that would change the trajectory of my life. Like the several individual moments in which I met the friends who would carry me through this breakup and all the others. If they hadn’t smiled and said hello, if I hadn’t opened up and let them in, if they hadn’t been there to take my calls, if I hadn’t been fifteen minutes late….

The next day, I helped the bride and groom set up the post-wedding brunch at their house in Philly. X had confirmed on the way there that he was angry at me, but said he couldn’t talk about it because it would make him too upset. I had to work the next day, which I mentioned several times throughout the brunch to infer we would need to leave soon, but X insisted on staying, so I played bocce and ate cru de te, made small talk and listened to facts about the Philadelphia Eagles. For hours.

We finally got in the car to drive home and X closed his eyes immediately, like he had in the hotel room the night before. It reminded me of a time that I pretended to fall asleep in college to avoid hooking up with a member of a breakdancing troupe that was visiting campus. It is one thing to implement fake sleep as a nineteen-year-old under the influence of Bacardi Arctic Grape, but to try this trick as a thirty-five year-old man simply to avoid an honest conversation was really something else.

The GPS gave us a three hour estimate for the ride home, and I asked again if X would talk to me about his feelings. I said I did not want to drive three hours not even knowing why he was so upset at me. He SHOT UP in the passenger seat and asked: “You really don’t know why I’m upset?” He muttered something about me ruining his weekend, then took out his laptop and said he had to work.

We continued on in silence. I pondered my life. I wondered if it could have gone differently if I’d been asked to the formal dance in high school. I wondered how people possibly achieve this elusive “self-esteem”. I wondered how, after ten yers of 12-step programs and multiple 4th step “sex inventories” intended to overhaul my relationship problems, I had ended up in the kind of relationship I would judge anyone else for staying in. I thought that I might need help.

X dropped me off at my apartment, the one I moved into with my friend Tess after moving out of his place. X carried my bags to the door and I asked again if he would talk to me about what happened. X told me he would send me an email. 

I entered my apartment and immediately felt the warmth of human connection from Tess. She was happy to see me. She wanted to know how my weekend was and if I was OK. I could not recall the last time I had experienced this kind of care and warmth from X. I did not know if I ever really had.

As I began to retell the events of the wedding, my phone buzzed. It was an email.

_________________________________________________

From: X

(no subject)

I felt the wind get sucked out of me on saturday when you said you weren't going to make it and when you showed up late. it was a painful and humiliating experience on what should have been a carefree and celebratory day. minutes before walking out to watch my best friend get married I see that you didn't put enough attention or effort into making it on time. i've put so much thought and energy and time and reflection over the past four months on trying to make every experience with you - whether it's just a regular dinner or something more special - worth every minute of it and reflective of how I value spending time with you, and then on one of the biggest days i'll ever be a part of, you're just not there? I don't understand what happened but it's clear to me you didn't care enough to get there on time. I tried my best to put this feeling of abandonment aside and enjoy the day as best I could. but it'll forever be stained by this and knowing that there wasn't even a reason for it. i'm incredibly hurt.

I have a very busy day tomorrow but probably have time in the evening to talk.

_________________________________________________

The final breakup happened over the phone. I wanted to meet up with X in person, but he tried to change the plan last minute so he could get beers with a friend - I guess he just wasn’t going to “put enough attention or effort into making it”. I told him I would really like to keep our plans because I needed to talk to him.

I was at work when X started calling me, repeatedly, to find out what I wanted to talk to him about. I stepped outside, answered one of his calls, and told him I could not continue this relationship. It was over. I felt clear and calm. I did not cry. He acted shocked and confused and tried to protest. His confusion did not have the same isolating effect on me that it had when I moved out. I felt no urge to convince him my actions were valid. I hung up.

In the months that followed, I would get a new therapist and start to unravel why it felt comfortable, if not urgent, for me to stay in a relationship with someone who treated me like he did not believe I was good or deserving of love. I learned that I inherently agreed with him. I knew I was in a toxic relationship with X, even while it was happeneing, but I tried to change it and make it livable, because being alone with myself felt so unlivable.

I now look back on that Saturday afternoon and feel immense compassion for myself. I see myself changing outfits over and over, for fear of exposing my misperceived flaws to the world, and I want to give myself a hug and tell myself I am good and worthy and a spill or an instance of mismanaged time cannot change or redefine that.

I look back, and I am grateful for those fifteen minutes, and how they changed the trajectory of my life for the better.