I always knew my anxiety was resourceful, but I never realized it could qualify me for federal employment.
Last year, my ex-boyfriend disappeared for a month. Which sounds dramatic, but if you knew him, it was completely on-brand. He was a walking red flag: captivating, secretive, and worst of all, possibly committing tax fraud at 21 years old. The type of guy whose charm could convince you into thinking that emotional instability was hot and mysterious.
When he ghosted me, I fully spiralled into a criminal investigation. Jail databases, obituaries, Facebook Crime Watch groups, monitoring his Twitter activity like it was a full-time job: I was in the trenches. My roommates would come home from class to find me staring blankly at my laptop, bags under my eyes, asking them, “What if he’s using a fake name again?” I compiled a list of all the aliases he used on social media accounts to reach out to me and dug myself into an inescapable rabbit hole. I wasn’t just sad—I was clinically unwell.
Then one day, out of nowhere, he texted me: “hey sorry had to go to rehab”
No punctuation. No context. Not even a real apology. Meanwhile, I’d spent the past month attending his funeral in my head.
Even though he never officially apologized, I blindly forgave him. I was naïve, empathetic, and told myself, “Maybe if I love him enough, he’ll heal.” I spent the next few months living in a fantasy, convincing myself that he’d changed, that the version of him that I created in my head might finally come true. Spoiler alert: I was an idiot.
Eventually, he vanished again. Complete silence after promising me repeatedly that he’d never do it again. This time, I didn’t let myself spiral. I took his disappearance as an opportunity to learn that loving someone doesn’t mean saving them or believing empty promises. I used to think his chaos was tragic and romantic, but now I’ve learned that it was just selfish, and I was in love with a person who didn’t exist.
Fast forward to today. Since writing this, he has, in fact, reached out to me. Naturally, I immediately pictured a perfect scenario where he changed, and we live happily ever after.
My delusions quickly faded because I’ve learned that I deserve someone who’s sure about me, adds value to my life, and doesn’t make me want to check myself into a psych ward. I can attest to my growth by saying that I blocked his new Instagram account, which, to no surprise, was under a fake name.
Anxiety made me a detective, but I’ve realized that I was searching for control in a situation where I felt like I had none. Heartbreak made me delusional, and forgiveness made me stupid by handing it out like I meant nothing.
Although I could justifiably add “Canadian Security Intelligence Service Investigator” to my LinkedIn profile, I’m long retired. Now, I treat myself with enough respect to walk away when I should, and I’ve learned that empathy without boundaries is self-destruction. Whether he’s in prison, rehab, or Switzerland, I don’t need to know. I still hope that he’s doing okay, just preferably far, far away from me.
Tags
Anxiety, Confessions of a hot mess, Ex-boyfriend, Hot mess
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