Tuesday Prompt

When Breaking Up Seems Like the Right Thing to Do

But how do you know for sure?

I’d been dating Gary (not his real name) for over a year when we had our first big “fight.”

We weren’t yelling, but it was intense.

It was on the sidewalk in front of the Theater Artaud in San Francisco. Right after the performance of one of the two ten-minute plays I was lucky enough to get produced by an outfit called Playground.

It was a huge honor, and I was thrilled. So when the director invited me to join him along with the cast to a brewpub across the street for drinks, I was jazzed. I don’t drink, but this was a chance to network and learn more about the Bay Area theater scene.

Gary had to get home. The babysitter clock was ticking, as it was a school/work night. Going home with him was not part of our plan — not when he had the kids. So that wasn’t even the issue.

But my hanging out with them apparently was.

He knew better.

He knew I wasn’t about to put the make on anyone or get let the make be put on me. He knew I was far enough into my sex and love addicts recovery program that I no longer “acted out” like that. He knew it was a professional invitation — a stepping stone on my writerly journey.

So I was quite surprised when he made a scene right there on the sidewalk. He threw some groundless accusations at me, insisting my intentions were tainted.

I was in shock. He must have been hurting. And jealous. But right there on the street? My classy software engineer musician, dad extraordinaire, became an emotional five-year-old right before my eyes.

All I could think to say was, you don’t really mean that. And you will really regret saying these things. And something on the order of Hamilton’s, I’m not throwing away my shot. Kiss the girls for me.

The writing was on the wall.

He did regret the scene. He did know better. He made a huge apology.

But in my mind, he’d crossed over a line. One we’d talked about to the best of my recollection. Shaken, flummoxed, and deeply disappointed, the break-up gears started turning.

Let me stop here and acknowledge my side of the fence.

I am a huge commitment-phobe. Long term relationships scare me. When things like this happen, I take notes. That way, if I need an excuse or justification, I have it on the tip of my tongue.

In short, I keep score. Not home runs or touchdowns, but deal-breaking faux pas. This one was huge in my mind.

I got scared. I knew how deeply he cared about his kids and did not want them to get deeply attached to a woman who would not end up being there for them. That helped edge me closer to my decision, giving me a good reason to break up sooner rather than later.

And, true confession, a hot guy at my church kissed me on the lips.

That was my undoing right there. I knew this guy, I’ll call Eddie, was a real flirt. But could he possibly be interested in me? Moi? Little ole me? I had a crush on him that I worked my program around.

Till he kissed me. Was that an invitation or just a sweet howdy do?

I was too scared to ask, so I went on about my business. But in the back of my mind was, what if Eddie really was interested, and here I am, putting up with Gary who doesn’t respect my calling as a writer?

FOMO — Fear of Missing Out

I didn’t do it immediately, but within a month or two, Gary and I had our come to Jesus conversation. I explained that while I loved him, I was no longer in love with him.

We sat on a park bench overlooking the lake near my house in Oakland. I wore a black sweater — my power color. My voice was soft and tender. I touched his arm lightly as I spoke. Once the words were out of my mouth, I hugged my own chest.

It was hard, scary. He cried. I felt like such a bitch. Having that kiss weighing heavily in my consciousness only made it worse.

But I didn’t cave. I didn’t look away. I stayed present, honoring his pain.

I hope I never have to do that again.

I’ve done a lot worse things in my day — being unfaithful, being the other woman, objectifying myself and partners various.

But I wasn’t sober then; I was numb. I did those things for the endorphin highs, without a vocabulary for or even a thought of talking about what was happening before, during, or after. Till time came to make amends.

This was live and sober. Real. Life. Stuff. Heartbreaking stuff.

Have I regretted my decision? Many a time, many a time. But hindsight is 2020, as they say. Gary wanted to get married to the right woman and have a third child.

That was not on my dance card. I needed to sashay out of the way so that he could meet Desiree (not her name). Lindy Hopping, it turned out! They married and adopted a week-old baby. Ten plus years later, they remain madly in love.

I am so happy for them. And happily celebate for me. Thanks for asking!

Thank you, 𝘋𝘪𝘢𝘯𝘢 𝘊. for a great prompt. I needed to share this story for myself if no one else!

Marilyn Flower writes political humor and satire to delight socially and spiritually conscious folks. She’s a regular columnist for the prison newsletter, Freedom Anywhere, where she writes about faith and prayer. Five of her short plays have been produced in San Francisco. Clowning and improvisation strengthen her resolve during these crazy times. Stay in touch!