How to Walk Away from Someone You Think You’d Die Without
You’re doing this because you are quick to say things you don’t mean. But I love you was never one of them. It was always the one thing you meant with every ounce of your soul when you said it. He knows that.
He has you trapped because he knows when you say, I’m leaving, I hate you, I can’t do this anymore, all he needs to do is get you to admit you love him. That truth erases all the screaming that left your throat raw, it unpacks your bags, it wipes away your tears and promises you that this time, this time, things will change. Because you do love him.
Too much.
By now, you’ve attempted step one a few dozen times.
You falter, hesitate just long enough to stop yourself from getting to step two.
Accepting that you deserve better isn’t easy. So, this time, don’t look in mirrors and try to find what you love about yourself. That just makes you sad. That’s when the hesitation rises. It reminds you of being young and empty. It makes you feel more pathetic than you already do.
This time, go to the attic and dig through boxes until you find the photo albums that contain memories you forgot you even had. Look at the pictures of you as a child. Carefree, always covered in dirt, grinning even when you had so many missing teeth your smile was all gums. Then ask yourself why you don’t smile like that anymore.
After you get yourself hooked on that bittersweet tang of nostalgia, call your mom. It’s been too long since you last spoke. Hearing how excited she is to hear from you will make your eyes well up with tears.
Let them fall. Bottling up emotions is bad for the soul. It also makes you wrinkle faster; something about stress kills your health.
Be casual.
Talk about the weather, ask about your father, your siblings.
Don’t let her think anything is wrong. She’s a worrier. She’s the sweetest woman you’ve ever met, and you love that about her. If she knew why you needed to run, she’d leave behind her pacifist ways. She’d teach him that even the most moral people can surprise you, that they can scare you. And you can’t let that happen. You just can’t. Your pain cannot be the reason her loving, gentle hands grow calloused. Your agony cannot be the reason she loses some of that honey sweetness that made you worship her as a child.
Ask like it’s an afterthought. Say, “It’s been so long since I’ve last seen you guys. Maybe I could stop over tonight, have dinner, maybe stay a day or two?”
Don’t let her hear your sigh of relief when she says yes.
Just smile.
You missed them. You’ve wanted to visit for a while now. He doesn’t like your family though, so you’ve rarely seen them on holidays. Listen to your mother as she rambles on and on about how happy she is. She’ll tell you she’ll make up the guest room, she’ll make your favorite dinner, “It’s still spaghetti, right?”, and she’ll make sure all your siblings show up on time. Let yourself cling to those bits of joy that her words provoke. You haven’t felt so happy in a long time.
Let yourself feel good. It won’t kill you.
Before you hang up, say “I love you.” Feel the way it sits on your tongue. Notice how it doesn’t make your stomach ache. She’ll say it back. Hear the way her voice changes, how honeyed it becomes as she tells you, “I love you more.”
That is love.
It’s going to make you want to say, “Wait, I forgot something.”
You haven’t. You just want the conversation to last another ten minutes so you can hear her say it again.
Don’t.
It’ll push you over that thin line you’ve been teetering on. Don’t let yourself fall into despair. You need to feel strong, now more than ever.
Take a bath after the call. You’re going to feel strange. Like your skin is tightening, like you’re cold but burning at the same time.
Lukewarm water, add bubbles and rose oil. Your mom always brought home roses on good days. They change your mood. Improve it. Roses bring your mind to sunny fall days, to kisses on Band-Aids and bedtime stories.
Make sure you don’t think of the time he bought you roses on your birthday. It’ll hurt in the way only he can fix.
Do everything in your power to not let that memory rise. I know it’ll be tough, so if you do let it in, make sure you follow that sweetness with the Christmas he got drunk and slammed you against a wall.
Remember the smell of alcohol on his breath as he screamed in your face, remember that he didn’t even remember it had happened, so you never got an apology. You never got the chance to tell him how much he scared you, how your stomach gets cold when you see him drinking now.
Remember how that isn’t even a bad memory now. That was a good year.
Make a point of staying in the water until it grows cold. It’ll make the towel you wrap yourself in feel like heaven.
Don’t brush your hair, braid it quickly and messily like your mother used to do when you slept in too long before school. It’s best to do it while the hair is still wet. Grandma always said so, and her word is law. Hairdressers will tell you otherwise, and your instincts might not trust it, but just do it.
Get dressed as soon as you can. Don’t let yourself air-dry, don’t lay in bed and get comfortable. He’ll be home before you know it.
Pack a bag. A backpack, specifically. Focus. Take a few days’ worth of clothes, extra money, the necessities. Make sure to pack the family picture you have on the bedside table. You can’t sleep unless you have that nearby. Go around the house. Find your favorite picture of the two of you, snatch it. It wasn’t all bad. Take his favorite green t-shirt, maybe the red hoodie too. Little reminders aren’t going to kill you. You can always burn them later, when you’ve begun to heal and can finally let go.
Don’t take anything he bought you, that is a different reminder. You can miss the way he smelled, but you can’t miss the presents he bought you after he broke your wrist, after he threw a bottle at you and the glass shattered on the wall only inches away. Leave those behind. Every bracelet, necklace, every token of his apologies. It’s not worth it.
Go outside, and put the bag in the trunk of your car. Leave your phone with it. Don’t bother putting on shoes. You need to move fast, he’ll be home any minute now.
While you wait, put something on the television. Preferably a horror movie. Maybe action. You need something loud so that the neighbors don’t call the police because of the screaming. You know it’ll be loud when he realizes things are missing. Check the house one last time. Touch everything. It was the first home you ever had that you bought yourself. You’re going to miss it. You painted the walls, picked out the furniture. It’s you, in a way. Take in the smell, let your senses bask in the familiarity of it all.
When you hear his car pull into the driveway, don’t panic. Sit on the couch. Pretend you are watching whatever show you ended up putting on. Take the final moments of peace to thank God that you never had kids, it would have made it harder to leave, and you’ve struggled enough when you’ve had only yourself to save. Make a mental note that you need to work on that. Maybe read a self-help book. Start going to therapy.
If you can’t afford that, your mom always says boxed wine is the cheapest therapist until you can afford the real thing. Take that to heart.
When he comes through the front door, don’t smile. You always smile. You always greet him with that rehearsed grin you practice in the mirror when you’re alone. This time, do yourself a favor—don’t. Don’t smile. Drop the mask. The act is over and it’s time to take a bow and close the curtains. When his smile drops, don’t feel guilty. His happiness is no longer your responsibility. When he asks what’s wrong, give him time to take off his shoes and put down his briefcase. Say nothing, you might cry if you start too soon.
Wave him over.
As he comes closer and closer, let yourself think of how much you love him. Remember your first kiss, the first date you couldn’t stop talking about. Remember the first time he said he loved you. Remember how embarrassed you were when your sisters found out and wouldn’t leave you alone around him. Take time to feel what you feel. Don’t be embarrassed. Don’t be ashamed that you love someone who you know has hurt you, who likes to hurt you. You fell in love before you knew.
When he sits down, it’s okay to let yourself love the way he smells. You bought the cologne he’s wearing. But do not let yourself touch him. When he reaches for you, move away. You’re going to want to hold his hand, you’re going to want to kiss him one last time.
Don’t.
He knows something is wrong, and if you kiss him, you’ll be putty in his hands. And he knows he needs to fix something, so he’ll give himself time to figure out what it is. He’ll hold you, touch you, then he’ll lift you in his arms and carry you to your bed where he’ll fuck you. You’ll let him. You’ll let him touch you any way he wants to. You’ll lie to yourself and say you’ll wait until he falls asleep tonight, then you’ll leave. You won’t. Keep your hands to yourself.
Tuck them under your thighs if you must.
Say it.
Just say it.
“I can’t do this anymore.”
He’ll roll his eyes. He’s heard it before.
Say it again. This time say it while you think of your sister’s wedding that you missed because he “didn’t want to waste a weekend on that bitch.”
He’s going to start talking at this point. He’ll be annoyed. He’ll probably start yelling in the next few minutes.
Say, “I hate you.”
Say it while you think of the fact that you never had a bruise before you fell in love with him. Think of how you never had a broken bone before you fell in love with him.
He’ll be screaming at you. He’s furious that you “brought this shit up again.” You’re ruining his night. He hasn’t even been home five minutes.
When you say it again, he’s going to grab at you. His hands won’t be reaching with love. Slap him.
Slap him for all the times he’s hit you. Slap him for all the life you’ve lost because of him. Hit him so hard your hand stings.
Then say it like you mean it, “I’m done.”
He’ll be stunned.
He’ll be in shock.
This is your moment.
Run.
Get in your car.
Drive.
Don’t look back.
Pull over after about fifteen minutes. Let yourself break down. Sob. Ugly cry. No one is watching.
Let yourself cry with relief that you finally did it. Let yourself cry for losing him, let yourself cry because you know he isn’t going to come running after you hoping to fix things. Fall apart.
Then wipe the tears and snot away.
Turn on the air so your cheeks lose that red hue. Deep breaths. Check yourself in the mirror, make sure you’re presentable.
Drive the rest of the way to your mother’s. Listen to your favorite songs on the radio so loud you know everyone outside your car could sing along if they so choose.
When you get to your childhood home, park behind your brother’s car. Give yourself a minute to perfect the fake smile you’re going to wear all night.
Tell yourself you’re going to be okay.
Say it until you mean it.
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Andie Eiram is a creative writing student at Columbia College Chicago. This is her first publication.