While I was lying in a hospital bed with a broken leg after a car accident, my boyfriend posted pictures of himself at a party with his ex. His caption read, “Finally free from the needy drama queen and her constant demands.” We had been together for four years. I did not comment.
By this morning, my phone would not stop buzzing with desperate messages from him and calls from his mother begging me to reconsider. Okay. I had been dating Richard for four years, and it had been a journey.
Not the inspirational kind with a sunrise at the end, but the kind where the tour guide abandons you halfway up a mountain and you suddenly realize you have been carrying everyone’s backpacks the entire time. We met when I volunteered at a community garden restoration project my company was sponsoring. I was assigned to the compost team, and Richard was the team leader.
He called himself the Compost King, without a trace of irony. Even though that should have been my first warning sign, I found his enthusiasm for rotting vegetables oddly endearing. He gave this whole speech about how breaking down is only the first step toward building something beautiful, and my soft, plant-loving heart practically said, “Sign me up for this metaphor.”
Fast-forward four years, and I now realize the only thing being broken down was my self-respect.
Let me count the ways. Richard helped with rent exactly seven times in four years. My name was the only one on the lease because his credit was “temporarily damaged,” a condition that somehow remained temporary for four whole years.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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