when I leave

Why is it that I have so much I wish I could say, and yet the moment I rest my fingertips on those keys, it's like a brick wall has gone up around my heart? 

I am in pain, but not from the loss of the love that I walked away from... if you can even call it that. More like the loss of the prospect of love... But that's not really the point.

I miss them, yes. But with time and distance, I began to see how troubled they really were - are - and the lines that started to shift and blur because I continued trying to look past it. And the realization is slowly dawning on me that this was very likely my last chance at finding love - and it wasn't even love.

In fact, it never has been.

When I first moved back to California after being gone for nearly a decade, I was running away from my own broken heart. The man I had loved so fully for almost 8 years, who I moved all over the country with, told me that I would never be the love of his life because he'd already lost her. And he could never possibly love anyone else because of it... least of all me. And this, after 8 years of loving him and giving him every piece of my poor, trusting, young heart. 

So I ran all the way home to my mom and a dad I didn't yet know very well. And it was my dad who gave me the one piece of advice that really stuck with me: 

Take 1 Corinthians 13:4-8, and replace the word "love" with his name. Are all - or even any - of those statements true, when you read them in that context? 

Is he patient and kind? Is he envious or boastful? Arrogant? Rude? Controlling? Does he bring up the past during arguments, keeping track of the things you've done wrong? Or... does he try to hurt you as much as he can with his words whenever he's angry? 

And it seems like he’s always angry… doesn’t it?

Don't assume that I simply didn't see it, blinded by love - because I did. I saw all of it... even if I didn't always see it in real time. But I think there was always a part of me that felt like I deserved it. A part of me that agreed with every awful thing he said about me. Maybe that's why I unknowingly sought out relationship after relationship that was just as toxic and abusive, if not more. 

I got better at it, too. Better at finding the one person who could hurt me the most, and then blindly giving them my heart. I actually started to think I must have been insane, because no matter how many times other humans let me down, hurt me, or repeatedly stabbed me through the heart until it was nothing but bloodied pulp - I still continued to trust. I still believe, perhaps foolishly, that most humans are inherently good, and will do the right thing if given the opportunity. 

How could someone who has seen so much evil - still be so painfully naive? 

It’s me... I’m the naive one. 

I avoid necklaces, chokers, turtlenecks - even scarves, in spite of how much I love scarves. My heart quickens involuntarily if someone touches my throat or accidentally squeezes too hard during a hug. Sometimes, my hair finds itself slung across my throat when I'm in the throes of another restless sleep... and no matter how deep or all-encompassing the dream may have been, the moment my subconscious recognizes the feeling of pressure on my throat, as minuscule as it may seem - my dream immediately turns to the nightmare of memory. Suddenly it is no longer just a lock of hair resting against my throat - I am waking up to hands around my neck, slowly suffocating me. And it's not until I can finally force myself to sit up and open my eyes that I realize I can breathe, and it was only a memory. It was only my hair. It was only my own broken heart.

Yet time after time, I continue to give humans the benefit of the doubt, forgiving more times than anyone would honestly say is wise.

In my mind, it seems to be a fairly common misconception that "an eye for an eye" means you should retaliate in kind for any trespasses against you. Those who believe that have it all wrong. In fact, they have it exactly backwards. Because, according to Jesus, He disagreed with "an eye for an eye." He actually said something along the lines of, "Do not resist an evil person. If anyone slaps you on the right cheek, turn to them the other cheek also. And if anyone wants to sue you and take your shirt, hand over your coat as well."

So maybe that's the part that I took to heart a little too literally. 

If they slap you on the face, turn your other cheek to them and let them do it again. 

If they choke you until you pass out - and then blame you for it - then forgive them, lift your chin, and let them do it again. 

I can probably guess what you’re thinking. But, no, my most recent failed relationship was not physically abusive - though I couldn't honestly say that he never "laid a finger on me." And I certainly can’t say that he protected me when others went to lay a finger on me, either. 

But I never woke up to him strangling me. And I never had to hide any bruises - only tears. So I guess that alone was reason enough to stay. 

In my mind, at least. 

That last fight, the fight that pushed me out the door and solidified my decision to leave - I saw something in his eyes that night. The same thing I saw in his eyes the first time he told me that I deserved everything my abusive ex-boyfriends had done to me. 

And as he and his son walked out the door, as I turned and began a whirlwind of packing, I was certain - as sure as anything - it wasn't that he didn't believe in laying his hands on a woman... he just didn't believe in doing it in front of his son. And I knew that, if I stayed, it would eventually get to that point. 

In truth, I had been feeling that way for months. Feeling like he probably could - and would - get to the point where he became physically abusive, if given enough time. 

So I left. I went to a motel at first, because even the somewhat sketchy neighborhood the motel was in felt safer to me than being in that house, even if I were alone.

And I know I will always regret the last thing I said as they were walking out the door.

"You know, all of these things I've been doing for you both - the dinners and gifts and parties and helping with homework... redecorating... making sure you both have everything you could ever need; you're going to miss it when I leave."

"When you leave?" he asked, the question little more than a scoff.

"Yeah. When."

And I let my heart break while I was alone in that motel room. I let myself cry, and mourn, and grieve. Because I knew what I had to do - had known it for months - and there was nothing I could say, even to myself, that would change my mind this time.

It's been a month since I walked out that door and didn't turn around.

And it's taken me a month to firmly close the lid on any arguments my mind was trying to conjure against the idea of leaving.

Just because I never woke up with his hands around my throat - doesn't mean his brand of abuse was okay.

It doesn't make it right, just because it was less wrong.

Just don't ask me if I would do it all again if I could go back. Because I don't think you'll like the answer you hear.