Right around a year ago, I was in my therapist’s office. I was sad, all the time. I was nervous whenever my ex would get home because I’d have to deal with drama if he was in a bad mood. He spent 90% of his time home alone, locked in our library, playing World of Warcraft or… uh, with himself. I spent most of my time downstairs on my laptop with my dog, talking to LAboy about my life, trying to see a future.
My heart was breaking. I spent six years trying to help That Boy become a better person, but all we did was fight. I “made him feel dirty” when, after foreplay, I asked for sex and didn’t give him a handjob first. I wasn’t “taboo” enough. I “never” wanted to roleplay. I “hated” videogames. I “hated” a lot of things.
Really what I hated was myself.
In my therapist’s office that day, I was crying, as usual. I asked her in a tiny voice if she thought I should break up with him. “Yeah, honey, I think you should,” she said gently.
Those words changed my life. It was the validation from an outside source that I needed. I was bolstered by LAboy’s support of me, no matter what I did – and don’t judge me that this was a few days after he finally said he liked me. The two aren’t unrelated – I needed to know that I had options. That someone liked me. That I wasn’t bad or dirty. That I was good and worthy and desirable.
I went home from therapy and told him we needed to talk and that it wasn’t working.
We hugged and cried and talked and he asked me if I wanted to have sex one last time (NO!).
Six years down the drain and it was the best move I’ve ever made.
Thank you, L. Thank you, LAboy. I’d probably be cutting again if you hadn’t given me the courage to leave him.