Unbearable Lightness

There was life before you. Life with you. What I didn’t expect, and wanted least of all, was life after you—a life without you.

​Sixty days came and went. Hours turned into days. Days turned into weeks. And weeks turned into months. At first, it seems time is moving slowly, like clouds gliding across the sky. Eventually, your pain navigates from the forefront of your mind, sinking somewhere into the unknown. These wounds you’ll carry indefinitely nestle themselves somewhere deeper within you, embedding in your subconscious as you move forward with your life.

​You’re not sure when it happens, but you notice a shift. Colors seem brighter. Food tastes better. The sun feels warmer. Sleep comes more easily and lasts a full 8-9 hours, a phenomenon in and of itself, as you experienced anxiety-induced insomnia far more nights than you can count in recent months. You feel rested and more energetic. You smile and laugh more. It doesn't happen instantly, but in a matter of weeks, maybe, you notice a lightness that you haven't felt in a very long time. 

How are you feeling these days? Your friends or therapist ask, inquisitively, pausing ever so slightly, given everything that’s happened recently. Without hesitating, you reply, Actually, I’m good. I feel lighter. Like I can finally breathe. The relief is clear in their voices. That’s so good to hear! I can hear it even from here. A smile beams on your face and shines through your voice. You recognize that joy sounds and feels natural again, the heaviness gone from your words. I feel like a heavy dark cloud has been lifted. All of this surprises you at first. For so long, he was your end-all be-all. He and the relationship were your sun, around which you revolved. I…I didn't realize how bad I felt. It’s like I can finally breathe.

​Many of us do not realize how much we are actually suffering until our awareness starts to expand; we do not see that our happiness has a ceiling created by the sorrows and traumas we have repeatedly suppressed. (~yung pueblo, clarity and connection)

​In the earliest moments of heartbreak, the pain seemed never-ending. Each day and week unraveled a new piece of a toxic puzzle, a new scene to the crime you didn't want to see or know. You hear other stories of abuse that make you wince and shudder. Stories in which someone is gaslighting their partner. Stories where someone held their breath, clenched their jaw, or felt tightness in their chest on a daily basis in their relationship. Stories that include someone flipping the script and highlighting the reaction to their wrongdoing. Stories of someone desperately asking their partner to be better, to love them, to meet their needs, and that partner responding with defensiveness because they internalize these requests as criticism. And then you realize those stories are uncomfortably similar to yours. The moment you gasp and put your hand over your mouth, you pause briefly, and then you realize, Wait. That happened to me, too. The shock and disgust you feel learning about other people’s stories of abuse makes your stomach turn, because you are now keenly aware that this is your story too. For some reason, it lands differently when you see it happening to someone else. Your insides burst with compassion, empathy, and a need to protect. Now, as you witness these stories, you ache for yourself too, the version of you that endured this hurt.

​Time hasn't just given you space to begin to heal. It has also opened your eyes to deeper truths you either didn't want to know or couldn't otherwise see behind the rose-colored glasses you so desperately clung to. In the midst of it all, when the cycle of abuse was alive and strong, it was like living in a heavy, dense fog. You could hardly see a few feet in front of you. You were alive, but you weren’t living. You were surviving, moment to moment, day by day. You were strategically planning your every move, the words you said before you said them, and the tone of your voice. You were sharply aware of your surroundings: his mood that day, his voice, and his body language. You were no longer living with a vibrancy for life; you were scraping by in the shadows of trauma.

​Ask yourself: Is the connection real if there is no space to be vulnerable? (~yung pueblo)

​You may still be learning what love is. But you most certainly know what love isn’t.

​You once said, I want a stupid, cutesy, romantic kind of love. I don't care how that sounds. Deep down, you are a throbbing romantic. You wouldn't say “hopeless,” because you drown your relationships in more hope than they're worth. Hope ends up fueling you and the relationship when the love you deserve runs out. Hope dresses up potential in the rags of red flags that are littered along the way, like confetti at a parade.

​Looking back, re-reading old texts from when the relationship began, that kind of love you wanted was there – or so you thought. It was tangible, intoxicating, and all-consuming. You make me melt. I’m smitten with you, you once told him. Btw… thank you for being you. Putting me on another frequency, he said sweetly. You melted into his affection like chocolate on a sunny day. Nothing left but a puddle.

​At the time when these words were exchanged, in the earliest part of your relationship, the love you felt for him seemed to want to burst out of your chest. It couldn’t be contained. The love felt warm and comfortable. It felt like a sanctuary you had traveled far and wide to rest in. And it felt like coming home after a long and winding journey. You cracked my heart wide open, you told him.

​Reading this past exchange today, you’re overcome with grief. Tears stream down your face. These two people seem like strangers to you now. This dialogue is hardly recognizable. Where did he go? You wonder. Where is that version of him now? The grief and pain you feel in the present is due in equal parts to what transpired when the relationship unraveled, when the abuse took shape, and to missing what was: the version of him you fell in love with, the version of him that made you swoon, the version of him that promised you a tender love that included him promising to cherish you. That version of him was loving, soft, romantic, and kind. You don't know when, but somewhere along the way, he was no longer there, and he stopped walking beside you; the romance he once brought fizzled into thin air. You didn't see it coming. You wish you had more time in that chapter with Prince Charming. Now, that seems like a distant and fading memory, a reality that has drifted far from existence.

​You close your phone and set it face down. You close your eyes and try to hold the tears from falling on your cheeks and onto your laptop. Reading those words from several months ago pains you in a surprising way. It reminds you of the hope, promise, and delusion you were drunk on. It reminds you of the future you threw yourself into, the relationship you thought you were building, and the person you thought he was. It also makes your mind spin and stomach turn. How did this version of him transform into someone else? When did he go from loving me this way to hating me? The fact that two drastically different versions live inside of him is utterly devastating and confusing. Now, when you read his once sweet, loving, romantic messages, you cant unsee the other side of him lurking in the shadows.

​It’s ok to remember and miss the version of him that you fell for, your therapist reminds you. You miss that side of him, too. She pauses. Your eyes and cheeks become red as you choke back tears. But you cant have one [side of him] without the other. This is the harsh truth: you can’t experience the side of him that is soft, loving, and kind, without also getting the manipulative, controlling, and abusive version along with it. There is no heaven without hell. On one hand, he gave you a deep and intoxicating love, and on the other hand, he dealt more pain and destruction than you could possibly comprehend. His version of love was not without control. His affection was coupled with manipulation. The only way it worked was when you didn’t challenge him, didn't ask for accountability, and kept your needs quiet. And that is a painful realization now, that his love was emotional manipulation dressed up as charm and heart-melting affection. Was none of it real?! You beg in desperation.

​Vibrant relationships feel like a sanctuary where you are safe to bring your vulnerability, and you are given ample love and care; a home that equally supports rest and growth free from judgment as you both seek to evolve; a union void of control but filled with mutual understanding. (~yung pueblo)

​Sometimes you also feel guilty, sad, or simply uneasy about how you feel better now. I’m so much happier these days, you notice, as if you shouldn't experience joy, contentment, and ease without him. You’re reminded of a book you read in college called “The Unbearable Lightness of Being,” by Milan Kundera. A profound, thought-provoking text that examines themes of “lightness,” such as freedom of choice and the absence of consequences, and “weight” stemming from responsibility and meaning. It is a philosophical examination of the idea that, in life, everything is experienced only once, which seems both insignificant (light) and meaningful (weight). This captures how life is for you now, after him, after the relationship. With him, your life and your days felt heavy, weighed down by his control, his past, and his unhealed inner demons that he failed to address, which tarnished the present love you tried to build with him. You thought he was your home, your safe place to land. But now, with your vision clearer, you feel lighter, happier, and finally safe. This lightness is as wonderful as it is unbearable. Your life is a juxtaposition. Each decision you make now is an act of building a life that reflects your own values rather than tiptoeing around someone else's needs and psychological demands. It feels good to be free, to be secure again, and to be alone rather than feeling painfully alone and on edge in the relationship. But it is also unbearably sad that you had to walk away from him in order to feel this good, to finally feel safe, and in order to simply be. The irony is that with your newfound peace and freedom, there is also a heavy sorrow. How is it that life feels both so light while also so incredibly heavy, and at times, impossible to bear, all at the same time?

​You wonder…

​Love is rejuvenated when partners occasionally ask each other, “how can i better support your happiness?” (~yung pueblo)

​Being, existing as you truly are, in your most vulnerable and authentic self, should never compromise your peace. If it does, there is no sanctuary. And that most definitely is not love. Relationships are often founded on promises that two people make to love, cherish, and adore one another. At least yours did. You remember an early memory of him when the two of you were drowning in the spell of a new romance:

You: For the first time in a longggg time, I’m not skeptical. I’m leaning into this [relationship].

Him: I’ve never felt so sure.

You: Well, if you change your mind, let me know.

Him: No need. My mind is set. On you. I’ll do whatever I have to do if you keep doing what you do.

You: That’s my plan. I am who I am.

Him: And I fell for that person.

​With tears spilling down your face as you recount this exchange today, you notice the words and the sentiments, but you do not see the follow-through. Harm is born, and trust is broken when someone fails to act on the promises made. Without action to accompany the romantic sentiments, it becomes simply a spell designed to take power and control. Over time, this leads to not taking accountability for his actions, gaslighting your experience, and weaponizing your vulnerabilities. This tells you that you aren't safe to exist, to be as you are, as he once created the illusion that you could. Instead, it transforms your existence into a state of vigilance. Romance morphs into rigidity. Safety shifts to scarcity. Butterflies become anxiety. And calmness ignites into chaos. Your once grounding home, your safe place to land, has caught fire. You watch as the flames crawl up the walls, melting memories and photos in the destruction. You have no other choice but to flee the wreckage or stay and suffocate in the smoke.

​When you walked away from the fire and ashes that filled your lungs, you were fighting for your life. You were suffocating from begging for the dynamic to change for the better, as if you were grasping for air while the home you fought to build with him was crumbling down in the flames. Months and months of struggling to breathe and asking for what you need and for what he promised to give you in the beginning. I cant do this anymore. It isnt until you reach your limit, you run out of air, that he says he’ll treat you right. Now he’s listening. Now he’s paying attention. Now he’s saying he’ll do whatever it takes, he’ll do the work, and he’ll change. Losing you is at risk, so he begins saying whatever it is he thinks you want to hear to stay. But this pattern has already been played out. You know how this ends. His timing and empty promises make you angry now. I needed you then. You shouldn't have to be walking out the door for him to begin taking action. That is the opposite of trust. That is manipulation.

​Connection and chemistry are what brought you two together. But it was a lack of emotional awareness and maturity, unhealed wounds, uncontrolled projections, and unresolved trauma that ultimately showed you that this would not work. Together, all of these created a darkness too heavy to sustain and too sterile to survive in.

​So, in this life after, a life that is sometimes heavy with grief, you step out of the shadows and into the light, finally able to breathe again. And for the first time in far too long, you don’t have to apologize for existing, and you feel safe to be as you are. This is, to your surprise, unbearably light.