Sustainability is great but exes are for landfill
Sorry Greta
Like many of us that are so horrified by the effects of climate change, I am sustainably curious. I balk at the idea of forgetting my canvas tote and having to buy plastic bags at the supermarket. I’m ok with not flushing the loo after every wee when at home (if it’s yellow, let it mellow). I enjoy the sartorial gamble when shopping in charity shops or on eBay. But what I’ve learned, over a rather painful 10-year exercise, is that reduce, reuse, recycle does not apply to men.
(Yes, this is a text that I sent to him and have screenshotted.)
While dabbling with my ex for 10-years, I was made to feel less than in the decade of my life which society makes women believe they’re in their prime. It was a toxic dance of which I knew all the steps. The constant flip-flop of comforting oxytocin followed by catastrophic cortisol and the ease with which my brain shifted between the two. Patterns of familiarity left me thinking that that was normal because I was so accustomed to being given scraps of attentiveness like a starving child looking for morsels of food.
Forever walking on eggshells and silencing my ordinarily very loud voice, for fear of how they’d react. Questioning myself and my power in their presence but knowing in any other space I command it. At its core, it was emotional abuse but done so nonchalantly that you’d never know if it was intentional or purely due to ignorance; a dangerous line of questioning that makes you allow, forgive and defend certain behaviour.
At some point, you must reflect and think what is this person serving you apart from high blood pressure and low self-esteem? When people would ask me why I’d continue to go back, I could never give a succinct answer. Even I didn’t know why but I knew after communicating and over-explaining my needs multiple times, that this person was committed to not understanding. A carrot of care would be dangled over my head to keep me there and think there might be change, to then only be left disappointed shortly after.
Finally, and at the relief of my very patient friends, I can see the trauma bond with clarity. It makes me feel less stupid because not understanding my own self-abusing behaviour was embarrassing and frustrating. And there are so many of us that experience it. So many of us that normalise and numb these destructive patterns because our brains crave familiarity. Smart, intelligent and confident women with the sharpest logic, crumble and lose themselves by partners who are incapable of nurture.
Ultimately, my patience grew thinner than his hairline and I discovered my value. In the same way that freelance creatives stop doing things for “exposure” and start asking what the budget is. Our self-worth can not be placed in the hands of those who don’t even value themselves. I imagine that most people will think of an ex or current partner when they read this, in the same way we all do when we see Instagram posts penned by Rupi Kaur.
Maybe you’ve already killed the root of your attachment and move freely now, or perhaps your journey to detachment hasn’t yet begun. You can’t rush, force or suppress it, (believe me, I’ve tried) but your time will come when you’re ready. Being consistently undervalued is not on brand. In the words of the great Melissas Wardrobe, “it’s a lifestyle hun” and disrespect is not, and will never be, a thread in any facet of my life.