When Bumblebee and I started 14 months ago, I was coming off a long series of bad relationships and encounters that had left me unsure I would ever be willing to date again. The logistics of a long-distance relationship might be insurmountable, but we both found something so special in the other that we were willing to try.
I was still going to therapy every week, grappling with how my past continued to influence my present, determining what was useful from more then 40 years of good and bad and what could be put away. But one of the things I was adamant about, from the very beginning, was that I could not be a secret. For me, secrecy is indicative of shame, of being told by a child molester that he loved me and that what we did was okay—but that everyone would blame me and be mad at me if they knew.
That dynamic played out time and again, specifically with men and sexual and emotional relationships. Sometimes it was their secret shame that hurt me, but usually it was my own. I learned to equate secrecy and dismissive hurt with love. It wasn’t until I ended my relationship with Rango in 2017 that I really decided to work to rewire that thinking.
And I was exceedingly clear with Bumblebee that I was not willing to take carry that weight in our relationship. Although he’d been separated from his wife for more than a year, he wanted to finalize his divorce before introducing me fully into his world. Fair enough. Like most people he knows, including our mutual friends, I knew nothing of his separation. He told me he was trying to finish it all before it became public. But the divorce was imminent. And he was adamant that he did not want anyone to cast me into some shadow of mistress.
So he said.
Look, my own divorce took far longer than I expected to finalize. Sometimes it be that way. But things with his kids and logistics got in our way. I pulled back but decided to give it another go. Then he was diagnosed with a rare and aggressive cancer, just before Christmas. All of our attention turned to his survival.
I was battling my own health issues, but I was back and forth from Atlanta to Birmingham to see him. We spent an inordinate number of nights holed up in a hotel, away from his supposed-to-be-temporary roommate and most other people. Occasionally we would spend a little time with my friends, as his energy allowed. Chemo gave way to surgery gave way to radiation. And when I was having regular dreams of being denied access to him after cancer surgery, he introduced me to his brother and then, albeit unexpectedly, to his parents, at the time of his surgery. I stayed at the hospital and at his parents’ home to help with his post-surgical recovery.
“I’m looking for the right time to tell the kids,” he said.
Two months later, he finally moved into is own space. He’d been delaying, he said, because he wanted to buy rather than to rent. Okay. But he suddenly relented and secured an apartment, telling me the divorce really was finally almost done. We talked of plans for my visiting him, working on grad school homework from his couch while helping him after more upcoming chemo.
And through it all, we had begun to navigate the idea that, when all four of our children were out of high school, we would have the option to move to the same location. He would talk of what we would do when we retired, how we would grow old together.
Except he still hadn’t told his teenage kids that I even existed. He still wasn’t comfortable with my telling my mom that we were dating, his having known her professionally before he ever knew me. And I was continually agitated by his social media, which was still filled with pictures of family nights and date nights with his long-estranged wife and maybe even a wedding picture (including more mutual friends).
All of these things screamed to me that he was still projecting an image of in-tact nuclear family that had been irretrievably broken for years. And I was still not allowed to share pictures of the two of us together, for fear that it would hurt someone unnecessarily or give someone the impression that there was something untoward about our relationship.
Except, there was nothing untoward about our relationship. His marriage had been over for years before we even began. They hadn’t shared more than co-parenting, as far as had been relayed to me. He was insistent that he loved me, that I understood and loved him more than anyone ever had, and that he was working for long-term future for us. For We. Oui.
“Keeping me in the shadows is hurting me,” I told him.
For the first time in almost two years with her, my own therapist expressed concern at his motivations for not moving forward at a more reasonable pace. Yes, so very much was happening at any given time, and his energy reserves cold be easily depleted. But, from my perspective, being faced with significant adversity tends to make people gravitate toward what they love the most.
I fully admit that I had moments of unparalleled utter fucking freak-out about the whole thing. I would be left waiting or rescheduled, because he couldn’t tell the kids or his brother that he already had plans with me. Illness could sideswipe a romantic rendezvous in a matter of moments. And when I asked when it would change, he would tell me he was thinking about how and when to do it.
“I’m looking for the right time.”
It played against all of my insecurities and my greatest fears: making me an object of shame, emotional abandonment, and dismissive ignorance of me. I had been fighting for years to deal with these issues. He knew about all of it—both from me and from my having openly written about the entire process—from the very beginning.
Through it all, I clearly defined my boundaries and defended them. I used my words and said when things were hurting me. I asked directly for change. I tried to avoid ultimatums. For more than a year.
But two months after introducing me to his parents, his children still had no idea that I even existed. He still wasn’t comfortable with telling my mom. I was still prohibited from posting a selfie of us together in case all the people who didn’t know realized we were a couple. I was given the responsibility of the emotional well-being of people I didn’t know and who didn’t even know I existed.
“I need a plan for how and when this changes, or I need the honesty that it isn’t changing,” I insisted. “To keep me living in this limbo is unkind and unloving, and it’s eating me alive.”
I did not demand to meet his kids immediately. I did not demand that he change his Facebook relationship status to include me. I asked that he offer us a path toward starting to blend our worlds—a necessary part of any future we would have together.
And so Bumblebee decided that losing me and losing We was less painful than acknowledging my existence. He chose to continue to hide and to refuse to do the hard work of change that would improve his own life. As I have seen partners do before, he threw up his hands and shrugged and said, “It’s too hard.”
“What the fuck?!?” my therapist said.
I’m not sure I have ever been so shell-shocked by a relationship in my life. It is all counter to everything I believed about him. The confusion from having been held and told days before that he wants every morning with me and then summarily dismissed and ignored is overwhelming. It feels distinctly as if I missed something somewhere. I have replayed every conversation and reread every message a dozen times or more, to the point of making myself sick from the dizzy.
I just don’t get it.
I can psychologize him—I have and likely will do so again. I understand what I believe to be his motivations. I understand his eccentricities and his weaknesses and clearly as I understand his strengths. I have loved him in spite of and because of them. But it is not the path I, or my girlfriends who came to know him quite well, believed he would choose. At all.
Knowing how previous relationships have played out, knowing my reticence and my fear and my strong desire to work through those issues, I was clear at every turn about what I needed and expected and why. He clearly responded that he understood and worked to meet those needs and expectations. Love and respect and care were mutual and reciprocal.
But now I find myself grieving. Breakup grief is different than the grief of death. You’re grieving the loss of the person, but you’re also grieving for yourself—as both the one who has lost and the one who is lost. Your identity with that person, the intertwined being the two of you created, is inextricably just gone.
And it undermines everything I came to trust and believe about myself. What did I miss? What did I do wrong? Was I really so arrogant to believe that I, myself, was making progress in dealing with my bullshit? Am I really just more broken that I realized? Is it impossible for me not to be better, if never fully repaired? Was I simply an object to him, a supplier of the comfort and affection he’d been missing for more than a decade? Was I just a great, gullible fuck? Was he really a coldhearted, calculating liar, capable of fooling me and all of my girlfriends?
Those are some of the questions I grapple with in the dark, in the middle of the night when I am awakened from some fitful dream. Those are the questions I churn throughout the day, as I’m driving or as I’m trying to work. Those are the questions I repeat in my head every time my heart feels like it’s clawing its way out of my chest.
Those are the questions I raged to Queen Frostine when, the day after he made this decision, the gift he’d sent for my birthday arrived in the mail. Because all of this happened two days before my birthday—just like it had two years before when Rango and I broke up.
(And let me tell you, there is no kick to the teeth quite like an unexpected birthday gift in the mail from your unexpectedly-recent ex.)
I don’t know how long this will go on. I can’t even begin to speculate about when I will start to feel human again. I’m currently waiting on a couple of my girls to get into town so that I can feel some love and support while I cry and wallow for a couple of days. I am plodding through work and home responsibilities and schoolwork, feeling like I’m watching everything happen slowly to me, as I move through some thick underwater. I feel dehumanized by his refusal to acknowledge my existence.
I am careful to comfort my internal parts. I am soothed the tiniest bit by knowing that I did everything I could to care for and defend myself. When I made mistakes and missteps, I apologized and did my very best to change. I was as patient with him and his situation as anyone could every be expected to be.
The fact is, I just have to get through it. Logically, the hurt will abate someday. For now, it’s the shadow I still can’t escape.
