Mexico and a Painful Love [READ]
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To Mexico, with Love…
It’s happening again, I can’t stop this painful love. Every time I think it’s going well, I fuck it up again. It’s been an entire relationship of unhappiness and I can’t understand how it got to this and why I can’t just let it go…
I met him at the hostel on the island. He started talking to me when I was watching the volleyball. The first thing I noticed was his smile. He would grin from ear to ear and his whole face lit up. And in those early days he would smile a lot with me. In my eyes he was everything I’d been looking for. He was perfect. I didn’t care that we could hardly communicate – in fact I kind of liked it. They say that what first attracts you to a person will be what eventually breaks you up. His English was only slightly better than my sub-par Spanish, but despite that we began to fall in love.
We were together almost all the time because we both worked at the same hostel. We did yoga together, had breakfast together, swam in the clear green ocean together… Only splitting to do work a few hours and then coming back together over lunch.
If I’m honest now I should have realised how this was going to end. He was suspicious of me from the start. He’d ask strange questions about my past relationships and current friendships. I brushed it off as a Latino thing. In my brain I pushed aside these red flags because he’d ticked all of the other boxes that I looked for in a partner. And so it went on for 3 months…
The first fight
I can’t remember clearly – there were just so many. But the first big one was the night before my 28th birthday. I spent the day at my beach party without him, because the night before we’d fought. I don’t remember why. We were drunk. I had been dancing with a friend of mine – someone I’d had a history with. Perhaps he was jealous, I don’t know. I’d done something wrong. He slams my door. We sleep apart.
The next day we aren’t talking. It’s my birthday. I beg for him to put it aside, just for today. I try to reach out, but get nothing back. So I go off with my friends and don’t see him at all that day.
I could never let my guard down with him. I could never just be the real me. I start to think the real me is a horrible person. I start to think that his forgiveness is what will make everything right again. When we fought I would become physically ill, drained and depressed. But when he forgave me the happiness would come flooding back.
And it happens again…
The day after my birthday, when he forgave me and the happiness had returned, we planned to leave the island. On a whim we took the car offered by a friend to take on a road trip around Mexico.
The first few days are absolute bliss. We were moving on, and incredibly, we weren’t fighting. To me everything is as it should be. Everything is fine and dandy. We even had a little fight that we got through relatively unscathed. I mean when you’re travelling and sleeping in a car together 24/7 you can sometimes get on each other’s nerves, right?
We arrive in Oaxaca to celebrate Dias de los Muertos or Mexican Day of the Dead. This is an event I’d dreamed of attending for a very long time. It was an event that was really close to my heart and it should have been the best of nights. Instead, it was the opposite. I spent the entire night in the hostel foyer crying. Surprise, we’d had another fight. Both exhausted from the days sightseeing and not enough sleep. I said something mean and then it all turned to shit. Again… This was such a horrible fight. So bad it almost got physical. And it lasted for hours and I felt sick to my stomach. All night long we fought. I begged him to stay. I dragged him back inside when he tried to leave. He’d already packed his things, but I couldn’t let go. Then finally as the sun rose on a new day, exhausted and sleep-deprived we made up. Raw from crying, I was finally “forgiven”.
I thought I loved this man. And sometimes you think that love is the only thing that matters. Sometimes you think love will prevail above all. Little did I know that this love, this cruel attachment, was going to break me…
In Puerto Escondito my wallet was stolen from my room. It plunges me into another low. I stress out when I find $700 taken from my credit card. Can you see a pattern here? We break up again. This time I let him go. I had nothing left now. Broken, I check myself into a yoga and meditation retreat. It’s time to heal. And heal I did.
A week there and I felt a renewed sense of life. I knew I could go on and finish this trip alone. And with this renewed sense of self we begin to talk again. It’s important for me to know this was not all my fault. I admit to all of my mistakes to him. I blame myself. I tell him that I’m better now. He wants to see me. To me this is to say goodbye. I thought it was for him to say goodbye as well… We meet.
When we spot each other on the side of the highway at the Oxxo store, an overwhelming sense of happiness washes over me. Finally we can part on good terms. But he isn’t here to say goodbye. He’s here to try again.
This happiness I’m feeling is all I can think about. Maybe it will work this time? He’s different this time. I’m different this time. And god I am just so happy! I don’t want this happiness to end. So we check into a hostel, and everything is bliss.
For a little while…
By now you must be shaking your head, because for sure this must be ridiculous to you. All I can offer is that when you’re in an abusive relationship you don’t realise it at the time. So many elements are at play. And you hold on to the good times. You know, I’m usually very self-aware. I usually would never end up here. But here I was… happy in my own ignorance.
Finally we manage to drag ourselves full circle back to the island and back to our hostel home for Christmas. It was a bumpy ride to get there but we’d held on to each other by a tether. And then I get the news. My mother has terminal cancer. She has six months to live. It’s Christmas Eve.
And it’s so bitter, so ironic, so ridiculous that this should happen now. Because, only a few years before his mother had died of terminal cancer. The similarities between the two cases is insane. I reach out to him for support. I am so, so far away from home. I call my mother on New Years Eve to talk. Instead, she screams at me… As best someone with throat cancer can scream. She croaks at me. She’s so fucking angry. I freak out. No one can help me here. I reach out to him again. I am getting nowhere…
And as the New Year thumps into fruition to the sound of midnight music, I am losing touch with reality. I am drunk, and I am not sane anymore. Reality is subjective. And in the darkness of the night, I lose my mind. Only for a little while.
It’s a strange thing to lose touch with reality. It’s a dark place there. A place I hope never to travel to again. It’s all a blur, but the devil came out of me. Detached, I vomit words I’d never say to my worst enemy. To him I splutter;
“how did it FEEL when your mother was dying?”
The next day I am completely numb. I lay on my bed feeling nothing and everything. He walks into my room. In his hand is the crumpled flower headband he’d brought for me at Dios de los Muertos. I loved that stupid headband. He begins to tear it apart. Not saying a word he flings the shredded pieces at me, turns and leaves. All I can do laugh and cry at once, because…
Finally, it’s over.
I know it’s over now. I book my flight. I’m going home. Almost two years being away from my family, from my friends, from my house. Finally, I’m going home.
If you’d like to read more about what happened with my mother, head over to: 2015, Screw You!
Have you ever been in a situation like this? Tell me what happened in the comments below.
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