Chapter Eight #3
I nod. “Yeah. I guess I’m thinking about how I learned some things about myself from my relationship with Ben.
Like, because of that experience, I understand how important it is to check in on yourself, and to spend time alone, when you live with a partner.
It’s something I’m sure a lot of people learn after their first long-term relationship, or their first time living with someone. You can lose yourself.”
“That’s a good takeaway.” She nods. “Your relationship with Ben taught you some valuable things.”
I nod.
I feel like I’m inside a library after an earthquake.
I’ve filled two sizable Rubbermaid bins with books I plan to toss or donate, but it looks like I’ve done nothing.
I’ve barely made a dent in the mess. The living room is still piled with books.
Anthologies. Box sets. Mass market paperbacks.
They’re stacked on the couch, the coffee table, and the floor.
Several piles have been knocked over by the cats.
I hate being inside a chaotic, messy environment. Why did I do this to myself? I imagined it would be easier to put it all away. I thought I could take everything out, look at it, clean, and put the books back properly. I just want to feel comfortable here.
“Maybe you should come home,” I tell Joy.
I’m lying on her side of the bed.
“Why? Are you okay?”
“Yes, I’m fine, but I think the cats miss you.”
She laughs. “Oh, do they?”
“Yes,” I say. “They told me if you don’t come home soon, they might become depressed.”
“Oh God, we wouldn’t want that.”
“No,” I say. “Depressed cats are a nightmare.”
“Have you tried introducing Kyle to them again?”
“No,” I say. “That first time was a total disaster, so I’m giving it a little while longer. They despised each other.”
“They were probably just a little nervous.”
“Yeah, maybe,” I say.
“I miss you,” she says. I can tell by her voice that she’s falling asleep.
“I miss you too.”
I’m staring into the darkness of my bedroom, trying to sleep, thinking about my therapy session.
I don’t feel out of tune with myself when Joy is away. I wish she were here, and I prefer being around her, but I don’t feel like I’ve lost myself with her. The voice in my head right now, while she’s gone, isn’t a stranger to me.
I do think that when you live with someone, you take on parts of them.
Even if you don’t morph into each other and become a combined person, you change.
I think that’s why people often say, “You make me a better person,” to their partners.
When you’re with someone who has good qualities, they rub off on you, and you’re the better for it.
On the other hand, I’ve had friends who started dating people I didn’t like, and part of why our friendship drifted is because my friend changed. They became more like the person they were with. They became, to me at least, worse.
I guess most people aren’t fully good or fully bad. When you’re susceptible to the people around you, both positive and negative things are bound to rub off on you. Regardless, you change. You aren’t just yourself anymore. You become someone different.
Ben was generous. During our relationship, he worked at the call center, then for a lawn care business.
He never made a lot of money. I was living off my student loans and my part-time paycheck.
We were poor, yet he insisted on paying our rent.
My money went to tuition, books, and my own expenses, but he covered our shared bills.
He also paid when we went out. I never bought my own drinks, dinner, or a movie ticket. He liked to spend money on me.
He wasn’t generous just with me, either. He often loaned his friends money. If he had it, he gave cash to people on the streets when they asked for it. He was generous with his time too. He often helped his friends move. He built a shed for his grandma.
He was also protective. Once, we walked downtown to meet some friends at a bar.
On the way, Ben stopped at a corner store to get a bottle of water, and I waited outside.
Two drunk men approached me. They said, “Who do we have here?” I told them I wasn’t interested in talking, and they got annoyed.
One of them touched my arm. Ben ran out of the store.
He pushed the man who touched me, so hard he fell over.
There were other times when I went out without Ben, and I’d try to walk home alone, but he wouldn’t let me. Even if he was sleeping, he’d wake up when the bars closed, come find me, and walk me home.
I do think he was protective and generous with me partly because he saw me as someone who needed protection.
I was a girl, and he was ten years older than me.
I think he thought I was vulnerable. I leaned into it, too, and felt frail when I was dating him because of that.
I do think he sincerely cared that I was safe and taken care of, but still, I felt like a weaker person when we were together.
I’m not someone who needs somebody to take care of me.
I’m a capable and driven person. I was the first person in my family to go to university.
I went despite my mom discouraging me from going.
I always got good grades. Teachers said I was capable and self-sufficient.
I’m employed, and I get good performance evaluations.
I know how to make a budget. I have an emergency fund and retirement savings.
I recently built me and Joy a deck despite never having built anything before.
The best version of me isn’t someone who relies on someone else.
Even though I think of Ben’s generosity and protection as mostly good qualities, they weren’t good for me. We weren’t well matched in that way.
I left that relationship understanding more about what makes two people a good match for each other. Some people complement each other; they rub off on the other in ways that make them both better people. But some people don’t complement each other, and they make each other worse.
I think Joy makes me better. She’s an honest, well-meaning person who operates in the world as herself. I’ve become truer to myself since meeting her. I like myself more.
Ben influenced the way I presented myself, the way I dressed, and the way I thought.
He told me he didn’t want me to get tattoos or to cut my hair too short.
He preferred when I wore dresses. Today, I would never want to be with someone who controlled how I dressed.
I felt compelled to look and behave in ways he liked.
I was quieter than I am now. I was out of tune with who I was when I was with him.
I was more passive, self-sacrificing, and insecure.
When we got together, looking back, I was impressionable.
Ben had good qualities, but he also had flaws.
In my opinion, he was ignorant. He didn’t support abortion rights.
He was friends with a group of unpleasant men, and while I don’t think he was exactly like them, I do think there’s something to be said about the company we keep.
If I met Ben today, in an alternate universe where he was still alive, it would be clear to me how we differ. I would know how my opinions clash with his. I would see who he was, and who I turned out to be, distinctly. When Ben and I were together, I didn’t know who I was.
When I was with him, I used to dive out of people’s way on the sidewalk.
I’d step into traffic before brushing an arm against someone else’s.
I contorted myself to avoid people, to fit the spaces between them.
I wouldn’t use an umbrella in the rain if it took up too much space on the sidewalk.
I’d sooner get soaked. I’d dart from empty space to empty space, twisting, hopping, going sideways.
Saying excuse me. Forgive me. I’m sorry.
I used to pick my clothes, hairstyle, and all aspects of my appearance based on what I thought would be perceived best by Ben, and by men in general. I wasn’t cognizant I was doing that, but I was. I packaged myself to be as likable and as unobjectionable as possible.
Now I wear what I want to wear. I have tattoos. My hair is shorter and blue. I do things like reply to people who send me creepy emails rather than ignore them. I walk straight. I take up space on the sidewalk. There have even been times when I’ve said, “Watch it!” to people who don’t give me room.