Facing Demons

My phone buzzed and I looked down. Before my face ID could unlock my screen and give me a preview of the messages, I knew what they’d say. I had mentally prepared for it. I’d been in this situation too many times not to by now.

And yet, as I read the message — as I saw his name on the screen — my knees went weak. I felt my heart beating faster and my breath was getting shallow. I was at the verge of a panic attack. I tilted the phone to my friend, my hand shaking, so she could see the messages.

After a mini-rant, I receded to my room, I knew I needed a moment. I sat on my closet floor, fighting off the panic attack, trying to take back control of my breath. My mind was working in full speed to run through every possible scenario, like a super computer running a million iterations, trying to find that one scenario where I might possibly escape this with an unbruised ego and slightly less broken heart.

I could refuse to let him into my home, I thought to myself. My friends had all confirmed that that was not an outrageous thing to do. It was my house, my friend’s birthday. It was my territory. No one would judge me. They would all stand behind me, support me and hand me a drink afterwards. And I was not afraid of making a scene. I had stopped caring about being polite a long time ago.

But somehow that felt cowardly, defeatist almost. This was causing me anxiety, and I don’t shy away from things that do that to me. I bash into them, head first. I was not going to give either of them the satisfaction of watching me get worked up.

Sitting on the floor of my walk-in closet, the safest space in the house to me, the one place where very few people had spent time in, I heard the familiar pitter patter on the stairs. Even through the noise of the crowd, I could recognize the sound of his feet.

I don’t know if he was overwhelmed by the crowd, had noticed me missing or could sense what I needed. Regardless, I was thankful he came upstairs. Pashmak (my dog) put his paws on my chest, silently reassuring me that whatever it was that had flustered me, I could deal with, because he was there. He was the living testament to my will power, to my courage and my annoying stubbornness. He was reminding me that I don’t fold when I’m afraid. I rise up and fight. I defeat the odds.

And so I did. I got up from the floor and replied to the message. If I was going to face my demons — and men that have screwed me over will always be in that category — I would do it surrounded by friends, in my own apartment, where I was hosting and busy. And had ample access to alcohol.

It would be uncomfortable but I have been through worse. I had survived the heartbreak. I had survived having my emotions invalidated. I had survived being left crying. I was not going to give him more power. It was time to change the narrative, it was time to change me.

*

I was almost surprised by my own reaction when they arrived. I was expecting anger and a strong urge to hit him in the balls, but instead I was almost relieved. I felt empowered. Strong. Free.

I had chosen to allow him in, and he was aware of that. And while he tried to get a rise out of me a few times, I felt almost calm. ‘Almost’ being the operative word.

I wasn’t angry. I was uncomfortable, sure — because let’s face it, no amount of yoga or therapy will make you that good of a person — but not angry. I did not want to speak to him or “catch up”, but I could tolerate him being in my house, around my friends. I could be civil. Somehow, through releasing my own anger, I had disarmed him of whatever power he had over me. He had lost his influence over me and I had lost my interest in him.

The words of my favorite poet rang through my ear, almost like a mantra: “Women are not target practice for better men.” (by Salma El-Wardany)

With those words and my latest heartbreaker in my house, my emotions started to unravel. I felt like a layer of dust was being wiped off the mirror. Like another piece of the puzzle was being put in place.

The realizations came in waves.

I could acknowledge that he was a splinter, and it still hurt from time to time but carry on with my life. The pain would go away eventually, when it was time. But I was not debilitated. By his existence or presence.

I had not failed by not being able to make him love me. Loving me would not be an accomplishment. I was not unlovable. He was simply not deserving of it. I did not need to fix him, I did not need to exert my energy on changing his mind, my energy was precious. I was valuable, beyond his recognition.

“Women are not target practice for better men.”, I repeated to myself.

We are not born to raise boys to be men. We are not here to teach them to be better. We are not tasked with sacrificing ourselves so they can learn. We are not responsible for their egos. We are not responsible for their education. I was actively working on myself to be a better person and deserved a man that did the same.

“Women are not target practice for better men.”

There and then, between the laughters and the smoke from the BBQ, I silently acknowledged that he had served a purpose, he had made me realize where I was going wrong. I was trying for the wrong things. I thought I had to prove to myself and to everyone else that I could convince someone to want me. I felt like I had to convince them.

That was bullshit. And toxic.

I shouldn’t have to fight for someone’s attention. I shouldn’t have to try hard to make them see my worth. If they choose to walk away, they should walk on. I was no longer going to waste my time fighting for the wrong things, to change things I shouldn’t be changing. I reminded myself of this repeatedly throughout the night and well into the early hours of the morning.

*

And just like that, for the first time in a very long time, I had a big night with friends that did not end in tears. I didn’t feel like anything was missing. I felt… healed.

For the first time in maybe ever, I felt like I was enough. And perhaps I always have been.

~ Photo by Nathan McBride on Unsplash ~