Simon emailed and occasionally called and wrote me letters while I was at college and he was living with his girlfriend. He told me how special I was, how he’d never met anyone like me. He was confused, he said, because he loved his girlfriend but he also loved me. I wanted to have official claim to that love, to be his girlfriend—and that goal became all-consuming.

I lost any interest I had in college and ultimately dropped out to move in with Simon in the city where we met. We were “just friends,” though. Living with his girlfriend hadn’t worked out, but they were continuing a long-distance relationship…even though he and I were sleeping together. I only listened to the kind of music Simon liked and buried the parts of my personality that didn’t impress him, including the punk-rock feminist I’d always been. I drank heavily and started using drugs. Simon did both, and I thought it connected us. I also needed to escape the pain and confusion of my non-relationship relationship. My substance abuse and Simon-obsessed behavior drove a wedge between my closest friends and me.

Just before my 21st birthday, I woke up one morning and realized that even though I’d finally achieved my goal—Simon and the other girl had broken up, and I had “officially” become his girlfriend—I didn’t recognize myself anymore. I’ve written about this moment before, but to recap: I was hungover, remembered that I’d driven home completely drunk, and found that I’d puked all over the bathroom, making it impossible for my beloved cat to get to his litter box. It was another epiphany, one that I recall now as clearly as “eggshell on the stoop day.” I remember the cat’s cries and the river of red liquid (red wine and vodka and cranberry). I decided to get my life back together. I reconnected with my best friend, moved home, applied to a new college, started therapy, and worked on my drinking…but I brought Simon with me. Another failure. At least that’s how I would see it for years. If I’m being honest, sometimes I still do.

****

After I broke down on the stoop, my mom spent the day listening to me cry and rage. We still went plant shopping—I insisted on pulling myself together for that. After, we drove around and I ranted about how angry I was at myself for being in this relationship. Eventually I got too tired to drive and we just parked in front of my house while I sobbed and she tried to talk me through what I was thinking.

My mom kept reiterating what a big step vocalizing the truth was, and how proud she was of me that I’d admitted that Simon was an alcoholic and that I was unhappy. I kept saying that it was pointless because I couldn’t do anything about it now. I had to stay with him or people would think I was a failure. She asked me what that meant, and in the weeks and months to come, so would my best friend and therapist. How had I failed? Who were these people who would judge me? I told my mom that our extended family, who had brought Simon and me housewarming gifts, would think I’d failed. My mom tried to break that down, pointing out that they didn’t judge her for the end of her marriage, which had been a lot longer than my relationship. The truth of the matter was I’d never felt judged by our family for much of anything. They were a scapegoat, an excuse. I felt a huge sense of shame, and that I was being blamed or judged. I couldn’t figure out how to explain it or fix it, and here’s why: It wasn’t coming from anyone else. It was coming from me.

I was mad at myself for wasting my late teens and early twenties, when so many of friends had dated around, and had been single and gone on adventures like studying abroad or immersing themselves in what they wanted to study or create. I was supposed to have gotten a head start on them when I graduated early, but instead I’d given all that independence up for a guy—one who turned out to be a creep. He had been all along. I hated myself for not waking up earlier, for not being stronger and walking away sooner. Staying with Simon was my penance. I would have to make the situation livable, or at least make it look that way from the outside. If others didn’t see my failure, I wouldn’t have to face any of it: my mistakes, why I’d made them, or who I would be in the aftermath.

But after I’d let all those emotions out to my mom, I couldn’t put them back in any more than you can put yolk back into an eggshell. It was terrifying because it didn’t just mean coming to terms with the end of a relationship. It meant accepting myself and an uncertain future—and finally doing the things I hadn’t been prepared to do before.

That self-acceptance didn’t happen immediately, but the important first step I’d made on the stoop was to admit that I was unhappy and could no longer tolerate it. What took longer—and in some ways is still in progress—was the realization that “failing” didn’t mean I deserved to live with unhappiness.

I had to dissect my idea of failure itself. For years, I’d wrapped it up with the idea of perfection. I was supposed to just know the right choices or paths. I was supposed to get the A effortlessly. Mistakes were not allowed, and this led to a belief that if I did make them, I had to live with the consequences without complaint. I’d told myself that I should have walked away from Simon because I should have known he wasn’t worth it, but in the moment, he totally was. I thought he was incredible. I was blind to his flaws, and I wasn’t aware of what was making me so vulnerable to him—all those feelings of loneliness and unworthiness leftover from other parts of my life. I made Simon my safety net. It was not ideal. It did not make me feel strong, but it was the best I could do at the time. And when I was ready—when I could face my sacrifices and mistakes, and the fact that my late teens and early twenties hadn’t gone the way I’d wanted them to—I broke up with Simon. It wasn’t as scary or painful as I’d thought it would be. It was liberating because I was ready. I was done hiding from my failures and living in pain because I thought I deserved it.

This is not to say that when the relationship ended, I completely forgave myself. That continues to be work in progress because of how deeply engrained my ideas of failure and perfection are, but it’s coming. Lately I’ve been focused on that day on the stoop because my view on it is changing. It was not the day I was broken. It was the day I broke free. ♦