A month ago, I left my fiancé. A perfectly normal man who loved me unconditionally for nearly four years. The voice I’d been hushing found a microphone and turned the volume up until it was all I could hear: This isn’t right.
I’ve been called brave by women whose inner voices reached their eardrums long after marriage, kids, and houses. It’s a mantra that plays with every heart beat.
I’m brave. I’m brave. I’m brave.
But it’s not in leaving him that makes me brave. It’s in reminding myself who I want to be every day since I have. Sticking to the decision that I deserve to live the life I dreamt of when he didn’t touch me the way I wanted to be touched. Didn’t look at me they way I wanted to be looked at. Didn’t affect me in the way I wanted to be affected. But how could he? I wasn’t me with him. I’m me without him, and I don’t know who that is anymore.
And that’s the part where I could say, “Isn’t that exciting? You get to rediscover yourself! No one ever knows who they really are anyway.” But fuck that for now. I’m gonna grieve and be scared and write about it until I pass out. And then I’m going to rest. And all that fortune-cookie shit will unfold. And I’ll be okay.