The first was toxic. As cliche as that is, it’s the truth. When my family found out about him and told me to break things off, I listened…and then he blackmailed me. I moved out, went to college, and that’s the last I heard from him.
The second wasn’t much better. He was my first, and I wanted more. I wanted what he wasn’t: a safe haven. He ghosted me. I moved on.
My third broke it off after a month and a half because he “hadn’t fallen in love, yet.” That’s when I realized I needed to grow up.
So I jumped into a relationship that could have lasted forever. I broke it off after he asked my father for his permission to propose. Turns out I wasn’t ready to settle down.
The fifth was the worst. We adopted a dog together, I drove him to work, I provided for all of us, thinking I was helping him. I fucked myself over and moved back home. He still has my clothes, some furniture and electronics.
Now I’m two years in on a guy who hasn’t offered to commit because I told him at the beginning that I don’t want another relationship. And now I’m halfway across the country, and that offer wouldn’t matter anyway.
How frustrating it is when you kill off a life your future self might’ve wanted.