Journal of Becoming: Entry #1—Coming Full Circle
Choosing me, then and now
Preface
The following excerpt is from an essay I wrote at 30, reeling from yet another failed relationship—the catalyst that pushed me to leave the U.S. and start anew in South America. Now, at 40, I’m having déjà vu—once again navigating hostile terrain, but this time, I have a compass and a map.
It’s still disorienting, how cyclical these things can be. But rereading this piece now, I see a woman who was already beginning to wake up. And maybe the act of leaving is also a way of returning.
If only to oneself.
Ten years ago, it felt like the life I had built with that person was stolen from me. Now, I see that I did have a choice.
And I chose me.
Essay excerpt
As I sit staring at the computer screen, I can’t remember a time I felt more heart-crushed. Well, there was that time I got married and divorced before age 30, or the time I found sexts from an underage girl on my ex’s phone, or that one time I discovered another ex was living out an entire other life online. Then there was that episode where I found the number of the other girl my boyfriend of two years was dating on the side, only to find out I was the side chick, and he had been dating her for six years.
I have always prided myself on my sleuthing skills, but when you go looking, you will always find something. Then you’re left to make the tough decision of what you’re going to do now that you have uncovered the truth.
And the truth hurts.
A disembowelment type hurt. Seppuku’s got nothing on a girl who has just found out her best friend and partner of four years, for whom she gave up everything—friends, family, career, home, car—to move across the country and begin a new life with, has been cheating on her for two-and-a-half of those four years with a woman from the office—an Aileen Wuornos look-alike who once pretended to be her friend.
Pass the sword, sensei.
After the initial satisfaction of confirming my long-held suspicions, and the sense of accomplishment of my detective abilities once again nabbing an unfaithful partner, have worn off my blood starts to boil, and I begin to tremble. I pick up a flip-flop—luckily for him, the only weapon within reach— and march to the kitchen where the dirty culprit is making our breakfast.
It’s too early for this shit.
I have one of two choices: I could get angry, throw the flip-flop at the bastard’s head and, once again, let my whole world come crashing down around me. Flush all plans, hopes, and dreams down the proverbial shitter. Or, I could be like so many kept women in the world who tolerate philandering husbands, learning to mix Valium-vodka cocktails in order to numb the pain of selling their soul to the devil so that they can maintain their lavish, comfortable lifestyles.
I take aim and let the flip-flop fly.
“How stupid are you?!” I scream. “Everyone knows you always delete the deleted folder!”
God, I’m gonna miss those fancy La Jolla Sunday brunches and gifts of jewelry.
Postface
No footwear was harmed in the eerily similar present-day situation. I’ve grown a lot since my flip-flop-throwing days—but one thing hasn’t changed:
I still chose me.
Yes! Choose you!!