Girlfriend, your relationship is so OVER, there needs to be another word for "OVER."
You broke off with your abusive partner. The problem is: you still love him (her) A LOT!
You’re trying to move on with your life but you grieve for him. Your misplaced feelings of love, loyalty and commitment prevent you from gaining closure for your failed relationship.
I fled from my abusive fiancé.
I broke up with Dr. Dirtbag and I moved to another city 600 miles away. A year passed and in spite of his horrific verbal abuse, I still grieved for him. There was not a day, not even an hour, not even a minute that I didn’t think of him. I thought about him the moment I woke up and the last second before I fell asleep.
It didn't matter that he relentlessly demeaned, ridiculed and verbally battered; I longed and I ached to be him.
After we broke up, my mind and my body went into shock. I was overwhelmed by vacillating, intense emotions. I was paralyzed by disbelief and denial that our relationship was over. I felt insane rage at him for the unjust and cruel way he treated me. At times I blamed myself for the failure of my relationship and I was consumed by guilt, regret and sorrow.
I had severe bouts of fear and despair wondering if I could take care of myself without him in my life. I moped around the house in my pajamas and I had suffocating anxiety attacks in which my heart pounded recklessly in my chest.
One minute I was so angry at Dr. Dirtbag I wanted to beat his head in with my high heel—and next minute a sickening, tidal-wave of grief engulfed me. Even though he verbally battered me to a pulp, sometimes I missed him so much I thought I would die.
I was tormented by my thoughts about him.
I tried to quit obsessing over Dr. Dirtbag. I tried to focus on my work, but I couldn’t concentrate. I kept a digital timer on my desk to control my neurotic thoughts. I set my timer to buzz at noon, giving myself permission to cry and anguish over Dr. Dirtbag for 15 minutes. At 5 o'clock I poured myself an sedating glass of wine and I bellowed for 30 minutes.
At bedtime I cried myself to sleep.
I succumbed to the weight of my depression in the afternoons. I shut my bedroom door, I closed the blinds, I crawled under my covers and I disappeared into my dark bed. The next morning when I arose, I was momentarily refreshed and then visions of Dr. Dirtbag invaded my thoughts.
I missed him and I minimized the horrible things he said and did to me. I fantasized that he still loved me and that he would call me and beg for my forgiveness. He, instead, married Bimbo—and I threw myself into an angry, despondent state of mourning.
Those were tough days for me. I I regurgitated the hurtful events of our relationship and I obsessed over him marrying Bimbo. I suffered frequent meltdowns and I cried at the drop of a pin. I was fatigued and I had insomnia. My appetite was decimated, my weight dropped drastically, and I contracted shingles. I took Wellbutrin in the day to function and antiviral medicine to reduce the acute itching and pain of shingles. I drank excessively, exacerbating my depression. I ran at night so the passersby couldn’t see the tears streaming down my face. I downed Tylenol PM and Ambien at bedtime so I could finally fall asleep.
I desperately wanted closure.
For me, acceptance was the hardest part of grieving—giving up the hope of reconciliation and accepting the cold fact I would never again have Dr. Dirtbag in my life. Subconsciously, I was afraid to stop hating and mourning for him, because if I still hated him, I could mentally hold on to him. If I continued to grieve for him, I could maintain a fantasy relationship with him. But if I quit hating him or grieving for him, I would have to accept the excruciating reality that I would never again see, feel or touch Dr. Dirtbag and I would be totally, utterly, painfully and fearfully without him—forever.
God said to Samuel, "How long will you mourn for Saul?"
My heart raced as I grasped the reality of my relationship with Dr. Dirtbag.
I loved a man who was a narcissistic sociopath. I knew in my core that his abuse was destroying me, but I clung to the fervent hope that he renounce his evil ways, we would reconcile, he would take care of me and we live happily ever after.
My thinking was illogical and irrational because he was innately and eternally an angry, abusive personality. I was stuck in denial, fear, anger, guilt and sorrow.
I asked myself, how long will I mourn for a man whose daily life’s pleasure was to demean, ridicule and berate me?
How long, indeed?
I gave Dr. Dirtbag over three years of my life. I endured a year in relationship hell with him. I spent two years in mourning and I suffered post-traumatic stress disorder from the abuse he inflicted on me.
Enough! I inwardly screamed.
My life is not over; my best days are in front of me. I have new friendships, business connections and social events waiting for me. I have a new home in Nashville and a fabulous writing and speaking career in my future. I may even have a wonderful man who is waiting to share his life with me. But I will never experience any of this if continue to dwell on the “what could’ve beens” and the “should’ve happeneds” with Dr. Dirtbag. I will never experience my divine destiny if I continue to grieve over the illusion of a man that never existed.
And so I picked myself up … I wiped the tears from my eyes … and I began the healing process.
Articles that can help you start the difficult process of recovery after a hurtful breakup:
The 5 AWFUL Stages Of Grieving A Breakup Or Divorce
Soulmate, Or The Most Hurtful Relationship Of Your Life?
Do You Stay Or Go? Loving The Emotionally Detached Man
5 Mistakes That Sabotage Your Recovery (Big Time!)
The STRONG Emotional Reason Women Stay With An Abusive Partner
Are you struggling to move past the trauma of a toxic relationship? Do you minimize your boyfriend’s or husband’s abusive behavior? God, Please Fix Me! will open your eyes and put you on a path of recovery.
God, Please Fix Me!
A Breakthrough in Self-Esteem, Relationship Understanding and Personal Healing for Women
by Nancy Nichols
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