It’s hard to be nice during a break-up, especially one as profoundly heartbreaking as the end of my engagement. Our split was hideous.
I didn’t want it to go this way, of course. After he moved out, I tried to check in with him, maintain a line of communication, but he was angry and lashing out. He had a right to.
I ended our relationship because of the things I read in his personal text messages on his cell phone.
Yeah.
For virtually every sane millennial, myself included, it is an unforgivable sin to read someone else’s text messages. I won’t try to make myself the good guy, here.
The thing is, I stand by my decision.
I needed to see those messages to see my relationship for what it was and have the courage to walk away.
…
For months, I had been questioning the relationship, growing increasingly unhappy and drinking more to cope. I accidentally mixed Ativan, a drug I was prescribed for the first time during our relationship, with alcohol. I blacked out while at a festival. It was frightening and dangerous. And yet, almost every day, I was tempted to do it again, just to escape the stress of our relationship.
The day he proposed, I was praying one of my parents would pull me aside to talk me out of it.
The day I went wedding dress shopping and put on the most beautiful dress I’ve ever seen in my life, I stared into the mirror and knew I didn’t want to get married. I kept waiting for my mom, sitting behind me, not smiling and crying the way moms are known to do in bridal salons, to tell me to take off the ring. She didn’t do it.
I kept needling my friends for their opinions, but they kept their mouths shut in a bid to be supportive, all the while avoiding me so that they could avoid him.
I couldn’t bear admitting how wrong I had been about this relationship. I feared I would never find anyone better. I was plunging headfirst into a future I already dreaded. Plus, it would be hard to get out of it- we were entangled- he lived in my house, we shared a host of mutual friends. It would be so much worse than my breakups in the past.
…
But then one day, I woke up and thought “I can’t do this anymore. I just can’t.” I don’t really know what made me open my eyes to that thought on that particular day. It was a wildly inconvenient day to end an engagement. 25 out of towners were on their way to my home to celebrate Friendsgiving and I had a turkey to roast.
But, things had been particularly awful for weeks, since a breach of my trust that triggered the most severe panic attack I’ve ever had in my life. I tried for a week to be understanding and see his side of the story, repressing my emotions and making no progress. The day of my panic attack, it took my best friend and my mom three hours on the phone to get me calm enough to drive the last mile home. When I got there, he told me I was faking the panic attack in order to gaslight him.
I felt like I was drowning, frantically swimming against a current in full panic mode for weeks.
The morning of the party, I asked his help in getting the house clean and food prepped, but he was insistent that he needed to set up the Nintendo Switch in the basement. He left his phone on the counter in the kitchen while he was downstairs.
…
I stared at it for a while while I mashed potatoes, arguing against the part of my brain that knew how wrong it would be to unlock it.
I had to know. I needed proof. I had to know if things were as awful as they seemed.
I promised myself that, if I was going to do this, I would tell him that I had and I would face the consequences.
My brain shouted the refrain “this is wrong, this is wrong, this is wrong. He will never forgive you.” But I had to know if walking away was the right thing to do.
So, I unlocked his phone and scrolled.
…
I was right to do so. Unequivocally and unquestionably. I will continue to believe so for the rest of my life. Sometimes, when your back is against the wall and you’re desperate, you do things that violate your own moral code. And sometimes, it’s worth it.
I found hateful message after hateful message about me. Addressed to his friends, to our mutual friends, to girls he was hitting on.
That he can’t wait to be rid of me, he hates me for being insecure, he hates me for crying, he hates me for asking for his help on things. That I don’t work as hard as I think I do. How dare I ask him to do more around the house, how dare I ask him to go grocery shopping with me.
It went on and on, criticizing my body, my voice, our sex life, my boundaries, my housekeeping. Nearly every message said a new, awful thing.
He was trying to convince our mutual friends that I was awful and they should stick with him. The day I asked to talk about a consent violation in our relationship, he was explaining to his friends that I would accuse him of being an abuser and that I was lying.
He was apartment hunting while I was desperately, panic stricken, trying to hold together the crumbling pieces of our engagement together. While I was as alone as I felt, he was inviting girls to the pool at his new apartment complex.
…
In less than five minutes, I went from believing I was going through a rough patch with a supportive partner who loved me, to realizing that he was leveraging every weakness and insecurity I’ve ever shared with him against me. He was sharing them with everyone he knew- mutual friends, casual acquaintances, family. Every worst feature of myself that I feared made me unlovable, from these messages, it seemed I was right. And, what’s worse, he was weaponizing them against me.
I had always believed that being vulnerable with him brought us closer together. I thought sharing things that I usually kept to myself meant I was being a more honest partner. He claimed to be a feminist and to understand what it was like to experience depression and anxiety, but these messages demonstrated that his support was purely performative.
It was earth shattering, but it was also a relief. I could leave the relationship without feeling guilty or feeling like a failure.
He hated me.
I could leave.
I could be free.
…
My mom tried to convince me to end things immediately and cancel the party. She told me she and my father would stay at the house during the conversation in case it went south.
But friends were already on the road, so I powered through. I didn’t eat a thing, mostly flitted around the kitchen, keeping everyone’s glasses full and playing hostess. He stayed in the basement, smoking weed and playing Mario Kart with one or two guys while I shepherded the other two dozen guests around the house and yard. Friends tried to get me to sit down, to eat, they thought I was too stressed about the party. I drank a lot on an empty stomach and went to bed early, trusting my friends to not burn the place down.
In my head all night, I recited what I would say to him.
After our guests brunched and left, I told him the engagement was over. When he tried to talk me out of it, claimed that things were still salvageable, I said “I saw your texts, I know how you really feel about me, and I don’t want to be with anyone who thinks the things you do about me.”
And then the rage started. How dare I? How could I violate his trust? What was wrong with me? He knew I was crazy. He knew I was crazy all along.
He then went out for a beer with the man that sexually assaulted a friend. I knew from his text messages that he had never believed her, though he told me otherwise.
I asked him to leave the house the moment he returned.
…
In the year and a half since that relationship ended, I’ve struggled with myself, with the decisions I made during that breakup. I know that I have been labeled “crazy” by him, and that the rumors of my insanity have been industriously spread. I don’t care.
At the time, I didn’t have the strength and self worth to admit that I was wrong to be engaged to this man. I finally got up just enough courage to do what I had to do to free myself. All because I saw the truth of who my partner was and how he felt about me Some of the messages I read that day are still burned into my brain. I know it will be the work of years to stop believing them.
Even so, I’m happy now. I am happy in my relationships, I trust my partner. I communicate my needs and I feel what I need to feel. I’m successful at work, the home I own is beautiful, I run and hike and lift weights and laugh so much. I only drink once or twice a week and I don’t need the Ativan anymore.
I needed to put this out in the world because I was tired of carrying it as a “dirty little secret.” I read my partner’s text messages. I know that many people will find it unforgiveable. I know he always will.
I don’t care.
