Grains of Sand
You think killing is hard, huh? Try healing something. That is hard. That requires patience. You can break something in two seconds. But it can take forever to fix it. (~Selma Hayek, Beatriz at Dinner)
It’s amazing how quickly something can fall apart. One word, one look, one gesture, and you go from being his everything to nothing at all. In a matter of seconds, he can make you feel like you’re flying, and then make your heart break with the snap of a finger or the roll of his eyes.
Hearts shatter like glass, like bones or twigs breaking in half. Pop. Crack. There’s always a slight echo of the snap, lingering a little longer as shock settles in. All he had to do was ignore you, reject you, lay a verbal blow on you, give you a snarl of disgust, or use your vulnerabilities that you shared in times of trust against you in a heated argument, and his work was done. Mission accomplished. Destruction complete. He didn't have to do any of the repair. No, he left all of that for you, which he didn't have patience or capacity for in the end anyway. He got to walk away, leaving you in the ruin of your heart and sanity. Cleanup isle you.
In the months since the breakup, you’ve taken to rekindling your love for nature walks. Almost daily, you and your dog set out to cover miles of beaches or hiking trails in your area. The peace and scenery are healing, medicine for your aching heart and busy mind. Lush green hills set as a backdrop to the steps you take along the ocean’s edge. You often don’t use your headphones during these times, so you can take in the waves crashing beside you or the sound your feet make on earth beneath you. Sometimes, as your feet hit the ground, you might hear a crunch of a seashell or a crackle of leaves and twigs. Broken. Whatever it was is now broken. Pieces crumble under your shoes, sinking into the earth. How long will it take before those grains make their way into something new? Another seashell, another tree? It will take years. Decades. It will take longer than the time you have left in your life. How easy was it for you to take that step, plant your feet on an object and transform it into something else, tiny somethings, shattered somethings? One second, and the thing is changed forever. One move you made slightly more to the left or to the right, and the whole trajectory would be different.
That’s how it felt being trapped in the cycle of abuse with him. Every eruption was like an intentional step on the path: the snap of a twig or the crack of a seashell, your heart splintering and cracking into deep caverns. With every blow, every rejection, every roll of his eyes, every putdown, pieces of you crumbled like grains of sand into the earth. The next day, he would want to quickly go “back to normal,” and “just be positive and kick back.” But the thing is, you can’t put pieces back together if they're unrecognizable. Putting things back together takes care, attention, and time. You can’t just slap two ends of a twig together and call it a day. There’s nothing there to hold them together, no glue to bind the broken parts.
What is the glue? Connection. Emotional safety. Accountability. Love.
I’m trying to… You started before he quickly interrupted you. Connect. Yeah. He says, eyes rolling as he tilts his head back in annoyance. You’re left speechless as he simultaneously turns away from you, leaving you standing in the dark on the sidewalk outside of his apartment. You just want to pick things apart all the time, he adds. You just want to be negative all the time.
You pause there on the sidewalk, taking in the space between you two that is growing wider as he walks away. With every step he takes away from you, his back fading into the distance, you feel your heart break a little more. Pop. Crack. The crunch of a seashell. The snap of a twig. Broken. Whatever there was between you and him was broken.
I don't think you really have the capacity for me. You once told him, after a heated fight that led to talk of breaking up. You’ve said it yourself that you don't have time, you work a lot, and you’re always tired. I just think maybe you should be honest with yourself, and with me. When these fights erupted, you used to beg to work on things, even asking to go to therapy together when these feuds first began. You wanted to get ahead of it, work on the repair and healing to set this relationship up for success. Because you didn't like what you saw and where it was headed, and you desperately wanted the relationship to work. To you, strong, healthy communication was vital to a meaningful, committed, serious relationship. I guess it seems like it’s not a priority to you, you said. You’re right, he responded with annoyance and frustration, it’s not a priority. In an instant, there is a new crack in your heart, like splinters in wood. What took him milliseconds to say has left an ache you can still feel to this day.
If there’s anything you know for certain, it’s that repair takes time. It’s a necessity. And done properly, it can bridge the divide between people. If ignored, a gaping wound never heals, and a great divide grows wider until it eventually swallows up everything you hold dear. What’s more, the space between becomes too great, and the connection is impossible to reach.
When he hurt you, you weren’t allowed the time necessary to heal. That was a luxury. And you rarely got the bare minimum from him, let alone any bonus features. Luxuries aren't awarded in emotional deserts and narcissistic abuse. The pain was a lingering ache you felt day in and day out. It was as if bruises layered on top of each other, growing richer and deeper in shades of purple with each blow he gave or every time he rejected you.
Look, I know you want me to just get over it. But I’m not ok. I’m not over it. I need time to repair, to heal. Repair is everything. If you allow me that and create safety for it, I will repair more quickly. I will move on as you want me to, but I need time and space to do so.
You explained this to him in various ways throughout the relationship, down to the final days and hours. While he was impatient and angry with you for not getting over something fast enough, you’d stress that you just needed time, and you needed his love, care, and gentleness in order for you to actually heal and move on. Getting over it isn’t like a light switch, you’d say.
But your pleas and explanations became a broken record, falling on deaf ears.
Being hurt and sad is one thing, but pure negativity is another. Are you going to keep up with these two days of cynics? He said, only hours after that the two of you had had the worst, earth-shattering fight to date, which ended with you leaving in the middle of the night to drive 2.5 hours back home. I’m not ok. What happened was not ok. You reiterated forcefully. But his understanding was lacking. All that mattered to him was his need to control your emotions and the situation. With you still in pain, pulling away from him because of the hurt he caused, he punished you even more.
It didn't matter how much care you took in communicating this and your needs for emotional safety and repair. It played out the same way every time: he would hurt you, and then he would expect you to get over it instantly, for all harm to be forgotten and never addressed again. I said I was sorry. What more do you want? He’d say. If you didn’t get over it, move on when he demanded you to, then you were punished: You are miserable. You make life miserable. His last words to you still echo in your ears, and the hurt pulsates every time this vivid memory pops up.
Everything hurts your feelings. Words mean so much to you. But words are just words. I guess we grew up differently. I had to worry about actual life or death. You’re so sensitive. I have to watch what I say, or you get your feelings hurt.
Hearing him speak this to you feels like a stab in your heart. You look out the car window as he drives you both back to his apartment. The darkness of the desert is a black hole you can’t see the end of. Not much is said on the car ride that night. You dare not speak lest he jabs you again with another hateful remark, an attack on you, your personality, your views, and your being. You remember that was the first time you felt afraid of him, not knowing exactly what he might do under this kind of anger. Is he going to hit me now? You thought. Is that where this is going? And that wasnt the only time you wondered if he might become physically violent. At least a few fights after that, you felt a shudder to brace for impact. Is it happening now? You’d think, body tensing slightly in preparation for violence.
Side note: If someone you claim to love, someone you claim is the “love of your life,” has to ask herself if her partner is going to lay a hand on her and physically harm her, something is gravely wrong. When fighting words lead to a threat or fear of physical danger, it’s time to get the fuck out.
They may not carry bullets, but words have the power to destroy lives, to break hearts, to dismantle trust, and to dehumanize entire communities. Language isn’t just about communication. It is the thread of true, deep, heartfelt connection, not to mention a foundation for respect. And from experts like Brene Brown, language has a neurobiological impact, holding the power to shape feelings and build a sense of emotional safety. Using dehumanizing language is dangerous for several reasons. At a granular level, Brown notes that language is the first step in dehumanizing others, thereby excluding someone from moral responsibility. Taken all of that together, words have the power to break you, to tell you that you don't matter, to tell you that you aren't good enough, to create neurological and emotional wounds, and to destroy meaningful connections.
Language and words have the power to change lives, for better and for worse.
Imagine, theoretically speaking, a partner of 20+ years, telling you they are no longer in love with you. Imagine a parent saying they are disappointed in you. Imagine someone saying you need to lose weight. Imagine a doctor saying you can’t have children or that you have cancer. Imagine your partner announcing she’s pregnant. Imagine a child, scared of the dark, calling out for help, comfort, and care– “Mommy! Daddy! Help! I’m scared! There’s a monster in the closet.” Imagine the person you love and trust, and the person you gave your heart to, telling you that “you make life miserable,” that “you make [his] life miserable.” Imagine that hurt, that betrayal, that punch in the gut. Imagine finding out that your being, who you are, who you strive to be, is labeled with such disgust and repulsiveness by the person you loved and trusted.
No, words aren’t just words. If words were just words, as he claims, then he wouldn't use them to cut you down, to hurt you, to break you. He knows what he’s doing. He selects his weapon of choice with deliberation and intention. And, what’s more, over time, he grows stronger because he knows which words hurt you the most. He knows which weapon to grab from his arsenal when he wants to cause the most harm and manipulation. Oh, he’s good, your therapist would say as you read her texts from heated arguments and his followed pleas for remorse and forgiveness. His abuse is that good, she adds.
With enough time and enough breaking, your body and mind learned to adjust. You and your heart were left in far too many pieces to be put back together, not that he tried with meaningful effort. You can snap a twig in half, again, and again, and again, until there is nothing left to break. Eventually, all you have are tiny, unrecognizable fragments of what once was. That’s what you are now—something different, waiting to transform into something new. In the end, he cracked your heart, mind, trust, and spirit too many times that all the empty I’m sorrys ’ couldn’t repair what he broke. He was right in that case: his words were just words at that point.
He used to accuse you of being the one who gave up, who always left, a manipulation tactic intentionally designed to ignite guilt in you and detour you from leaving the relationship. It worked. But in the end, when he still berrated you for leaving, for giving up, for never loving him, he failed to realize one key point: it wasn't that you left; it was that he broke you enough times so that all that was left of you were like tiny fragments, like grains of sand vanishing into the earth.
You didn't leave him. He just couldnt see you anymore. And he probably never did.
