If you find yourself a little bit idiotic like me, you probably know the following situation.
A few months ago, I was in a toxic relationship – the kind where everything was wrong from the very beginning. As I’m growing up, I’ve realised I can’t always blame the other side just because they didn’t treat me right. They treated me exactly the way I allowed them to.
Our low self-esteem often leads us straight into this inconvenient truth. Sooner or later, you hit rock bottom, and you’ll do anything to escape. The way you find your way out often defines your future relationships – especially the one with yourself.
And I did it wrong. Many, many times. The same mistake on repeat. I ran straight into the arms of another toxic man. He made me feel special. He made me believe we had a connection – that he was the one. My Mr Big. My Ross for Rachel. My Jerry for Holly (P.S. I Love You reference for the romantics out there).
But as time went on, this so-called Mr Big disappeared. Ghosted me. Rejected me. Whatever you want to call it. I won’t lie – that rejection pushed me straight into my hoe phase. I was breaking hearts the way he broke mine. Frankly, I didn’t give a damn about the people I slept with.
Love me? Great – I’ll still break your heart into a thousand pieces.
Don’t love me? You will one day… everyone does eventually.
As you can see, I was the living definition of the word toxic.
Two months ago, I got sick of myself – and of that lifestyle. I realised it wasn’t leading anywhere. I was wasting my time and energy. Some might say I finally grew up, became the adult I was supposed to be years ago. But really, I just found peace.
I started to love being alone. I began taking myself on dates – dinners, nature trips, museum visits. Alone? No problem at all.
Until one day, Mr HIM reached out again.
“Hey baby, how’s it going?”
Not gonna lie — my heart nearly exploded. But you know what, girl? The best thing you can do in that moment is let it go. Don’t answer that dumb message. You don’t need him back in your life. Trust me.
I hope it’s obvious that I replied anyway. Not only did I reply – I met him. That’s right. My dumb ass did that.
But here’s the twist: meeting him was actually the best thing I could’ve done. I finally saw him clearly. My so-called “Mr Perfect” turned out to be just another freak. My brain had put him on a pedestal like some kind of demigod. I created a whole story – a fantasy – romanticising him until I believed he was something extraordinary.
And you know what I realised? He’s not worth it.
He’s just a crumb.
And I deserve the whole damn cake.
(Women Don’t Owe You Pretty – Florence Given.)
