Enforcing Boundaries Feels Wrong
Like exercise, it only feels good when it’s over.
I’m going to come out and say it: “Setting boundaries” sounds like some therapy cliché filled with hippie bullshit.
It’s something we’ve all heard. But admittedly, I never knew what it meant.
What I thought it meant was to not have sex if you don’t want to or feeling comfortable telling people not to wear shoes in your house. My black-or-white thinking thought boundary setting was removing a guy’s unwanted hand from your thigh or telling your mother-in-law that their grandson cannot have sugar.
While those are examples of it, those aren’t the hard ones. The difficult boundary setting is when it feels so uncomfortable and scary to do that you’d rather be miserable with the status quo.
There are few times in my life where I set boundaries. I had a stalker who threatened to blackmail me. I caved to his demands because his grasp on my world was too strong. It wasn’t until he pushed me so far that I had no choice but to tell him to stop; I didn’t care anymore about the consequences.
I should have realized, that’s what boundary setting is: when any negative consequences from setting that boundary are less than the pain experienced without it.
Doing that in my marriage was hard. Joseph didn’t like when I set limits around things. I was nagging and controlling in his eyes. While I contributed to the anarchy of our marriage at the beginning, after having our first child with a chromosome disorder my stance on life changed. My childhood experience of a shitty household no longer provided emotional safety when Joseph got angry.
Asking for a divorce was hard and I caved in to a Parenting Marriage effort. That didn’t last very long because I was still scared of setting him off (to be clear, he wasn’t physically abusive…just a tantrum-throwing-man-baby). Nothing changed other than the expectation of kissing and once-a-quarter sex. If anything, I made it worse because Joseph had extra reason to be upset and emotionally strung out. He didn’t take it well when I asked for more leeway, like setting a timeline on when we could start dating (he wanted two years before either of us could date other people).
When my kids returned to school after social distancing, Joseph flipped his shit on me over an incident trying to find all my son’s school books. While my son watched bewildered with a toothbrush still in his mouth, Joseph yelled and raged over my saying, “yeah I know, I have the teacher’s email right here” when he had explained which books were needed. I froze in confusion, angering him more because he didn’t like that I “acted” confused or that I was “acting” like he did something wrong.
That morning after he left to take them to school, it dawned on me: I don’t have to live in a house where anyone yells at me anymore.
Upon telling Joseph that I didn’t want the Parenting Marriage anymore because I no longer wanted to live in a house with yelling, he resumed his MO of saying I was selfish and not thinking about the kids. He said it was unrealistic to expect to live in a house without yelling.
“I don’t care if the yelling is even once a year,” I replied. “I can’t do it anymore. I just can’t.” Before this conversation, I was terrified to tell him. Upon saying it, I no longer cared if he freaked out.
It’s like once I set the boundary, a glass dome was placed over him and his hurtful yells became muffled background noise.
Still, I agreed to try Nesting, which is where the parents rotate out of the house and the kids stay in one spot. It is an ideal situation to minimize the pain of parental breakup; it’s a lot easier for parents to schlep back and forth than it is for children. I didn’t care if I had to live out of a suitcase.
I was hesitant because I knew that it meant two locations where I’d have to manage the community areas, like keeping the kitchen clean and washing the kids’ towels. I wanted to try it with a rented place before we bought a small condo but thankfully, the current state of housing and renting made it unfeasible.
One night while berating me over the lazy job my daughter did on a project, I wearily said, “well then, you can do it with her then.” Joseph flipped his lid. I think it’s a sign of narcissism because he continuously pushes and when I snap with a one-liner, he finds reason to go berserk. My breaking point was when he called me a “piece of shit”.
It finally hit me that I didn’t want to share two properties with someone who name-called. Why would I want to risk having to get rid of two locations if things went even more south? And why the fuck would I buy another property with someone who called me a piece of shit? Who in their right mind would do that?
While I was confident in my decision, I was still nervous at the execution. This meant a full-fledged divorce and I knew Joseph wouldn’t take it well. I didn’t care anymore. Once I realized the boundary was more important than the outcome, it was easy to tell him. As he flipped out, another mental glass dome was placed over him to muffle his accusations of poor parenting choices and selfishness.
It was harder when it came to enforcing boundaries with Jon. He’s my kryptonite, even after a breakup. When I explained our relationship to my friend Ellie, the only person who knows about my affair and the ensuing heartbreak, I heard how absurd it all was. I’d never understand it if a friend were in this boat. Why was I allowing myself to receive messages from a guy who immediately jumped into a long-term relationship, fell in love with her, but kept telling me he missed me?
A few months ago I bit the bullet after a series of upsetting texts and told him to no longer contact me because all he did was message how there is nothing between us and that we don’t know each other anymore. I didn’t want to receive texts that he admitted didn’t make him feel better. Like bro, you messaged me. I’m never the one reaching out every few weeks.
It was terrifying. And as expected, he didn’t reply back. I felt like I threw away any chance at a possible future together but I didn’t care; the most negative consequence of setting that boundary wasn’t as important as doing something for my mental health.
Eventually, he began texting me again. Fairly innocuous things and I allowed myself to reply since they were benign topics sent sporadically.
When Jon texted me this week, I realized I hadn’t done enough to enforce the boundary. He wasn’t intentional in what he said that hurt. To him, explaining how he’s happy in his life but still misses me wasn’t a bad thing. There is no malice; he’s the right level of self-absorbed to not see the consequences of his words.
To me, it was torture. I allowed every few weeks to let him dangle his happily-in-love relationship over me along with his newfound happy life. I never felt good after any of our interactions. And because he’s a love addict too terrified to be alone, there’s no doubt that Jon will be with her for at least a decade.
The risk of losing him forever outweighed the pain from his messages which did not thing but hurt and prevent me from fully moving on.
I wrote an old-school paper letter. I bawled while writing it. I told him that it made no sense for someone who is sublimely happy to continue reaching out to an ex. I explained that his actions from the past and his words from the present served no purpose.
Finally, I wrote that he is allowed to message me if he ever becomes single and wants to see if I’m still interested. Otherwise, I didn’t want any further communication.
I didn’t set a boundary only with him. This time, I set a boundary on myself.
To make sure I followed through, I strongly wrote that no matter what else he sends me, I will never reply. It wasn’t for a lack of want or love; I just couldn’t reply ever again. That was the boundary-setting.
I must feel pretty strongly about it to pay UPS ten bucks to send something that would be three bucks of gas to drive over. The guy behind the counter looked at me in pity when I began stuttering a nonsensical reason and said, “Hey, everyone’s got their reasons. I don’t ask.”
It’s been a rough week. I allowed myself to cry over Jon for the last time. One should never re-experience the pain of a breakup repeatedly for a year. No one should struggle to fully move on when their ex constantly reminds them how happy they are in a life without them. Or as sung in “Driver’s License”: I just can’t imagine how he could be so okay now that I’m gone.
Because I wasn’t okay with him gone. Not when he bounced back every few weeks with just enough of a drug hit to fuel my addiction. It fueled the fear of never loving someone like that or experiencing that much fun.
This was a boundary that I set with myself. Whether he reaches out or not is irrelevant now. It’s on me to remember that replying is what causes my pain, especially when I know he genuinely isn’t trying to hurt me. It’s within my control as long as I stick by my own rules.
Every time I set a boundary, a consistent pattern emerged. It begins with repeated behavior that hurts me and eventually, I stop fearing the worst-case scenario when I stick up for myself. What is terrifying at first becomes a sense of relief after.
Enforcing boundaries is like working out. You dread the thought of it. When you suck it up and finally do it, you can’t wait for it to be over. After finishing the workout, you’re drained and exhausted but damn…it’s awesome.
Taking care of yourself with boundary setting and enforcement feels damn good.
