Because of the mushrooms!
My therapist actually laughed out loud when I told her I broke up with my ex on accident. It does sound silly, actually. “How could one make such an altering decision accidentally?”, she asked in response.
“Because of the mushrooms!”
I replied. Her eyes widened in curiosity.
I cooked dinner that night, like usual. It had become a learned practice almost every weekday: I’d get off at 5:00 pm, brave the hellish Nashville rush hour traffic, then get home and hop on mommy-duty. I’d make dinner, help with homework, do some cleaning, and spend some quality time with Baby Z. After she was done showering, I’d tuck her into bed and slip into the bathroom. And after I’d complete my shower, like clockwork, my ex would walk through the door, returning home from his shift. He’d handle his post-work duties, eat the dinner I had stored in the microwave, and then spend the rest of the evening hanging out with me. After a few hours, we’d retreat to the bedroom, kiss each other goodnight, and drift off into the next day. It was the same routine.
That night, the house was clean, Baby Z was clean and tucked into bed, I was showered and ready for his arrival, and his plate of chopped and cooked mushrooms lay dormant in the microwave.
But something was off. 8:00 pm had already passed, and I didn’t receive a text from him letting me know he was on his way home. This was also the same day my car broke down (engine misfire, I learned), and he promised me he’d come home so we could figure out the next move since my car supported both of us + Baby Z. But it was 8:30 pm at this point, and any other day, he’d be home by now. I sent a question mark to his phone, prompting him to give me some sort of update. He was notoriously bad at that, so I learned to work around it by giving him a little extra push when needed.
‘I couldn’t get a Lyft,’
he proceeds to tell me. ‘Somehow, my bank account got locked, so I’m getting a ride to -enter random convenience store here-, so I can get money to put on my card to order a Lyft to come home.’
This happened weeks ago, and I still roll my eyes at the sound of it. What a dummy mission. My first thought should have easily questioned why he needed to do this elaborate plan when he could have simply borrowed money from me for a Lyft. My first thought should have been to ask what happened to his emergency bus pass and why he wasn’t going to use it at such an appropriate time. But it wasn’t.
‘A ride? From who?’ I responded, to which he named a girl coworker I’d never even heard of. That was so strange to me. My boyfriend of 10 months had a crisis that involved getting back to our shared home, and instead of reaching out to his partner, he asked a female coworker to help him initiate his plan to (and I quote) ‘get money, to add on the card, to get a lyft, to get home’.
I started popping off via text.
‘All of this when you could have just asked me for a Lyft?
I could have sent money or at least sent a Lyft to get you.
Who even is -enter female coworker’s name-?”
Then he went silent for a bit, only reaching out an additional 40 minutes later, saying his plan did not work out–he was going to stay at my grandmother’s house for the night. He already reached out to her and asked. This was extremely strange, because it wasn’t like he and my grandma were close and talked a bunch. But of course, my grandma (God bless her) is giving, especially to those I love and care about. She let him stay, apparently, but I didn’t believe a word of it. So I called him. I needed him to explain to me why any of this made sense.
“You did all this when I could have just helped you. I’ve done it before. We help each other when we need help all of the time… because we’re a team. This doesn’t make sense,” I was telling him. “Plus, you know Smith (my car) just broke down, and you said we would work it out and make a plan tonight. You’re off work tomorrow, but I still have to go in. I don’t know how Z is getting to school or nothing. And you decided an hour after you got off to let me know you’re not actually coming home?”
I was heated, and it’s almost like he didn’t understand why.
“If you reached out for help and I couldn’t do anything, then ok!” I continued. “Then you can reach out to coworkers and friends or whatever. But to say nothing to me at all? You’re supposed to reach out to your partner first.”
He was always pulling this shit–making executive decisions for himself that impacted both of us, and sometimes even Zayna. For a man who was so adamant about having a family and building a generation, he was notorious for making choices that jeopardized it.
I promise you, and this is verbatim, he said with the most level voice:
‘Why do I always have to reach out to you or rely on you for help?’
This man, who sat with me for hours on dates, talking about his incessant desire for partnership and the ultimate teammate, really sat and said that shit to me.
The same man who told me how comfortable and safe I make him, that he can come to me about anything, said that shit to me.
This man, whom I’ve opened my apartment doors to, made room for, adopted into my daily routines and habits, has been talking to me about marriage plans, said that shit to me.
We were almost a year into our relationship, living together, naming our future kids, and this man was still questioning why I needed to be looped in about certain shit.
The next part is a blur, so bear with me.
At the time, I could not imagine a reality where he was going to sleep soundly in my grandma’s guest room, and I was gonna be at home stressed about morning transportation, combating feelings of abandonment from my partner. I said just about anything to get his ass back home, because I had had enough. He had me, and I cannot stress this enough, fucked up. Like I said, he was always doing this–moving selfishly. Calling me his partner, but treating me like anything but. Making decisions and letting me find out by myself afterward.
See, it wasn’t about this specific night. It was about -all- the nights. It was about every decision he made that impacted me, but didn’t involve me. It was about the trips he didn’t pay for, but wanted to be part of. It was about him sitting on the couch and ignoring me on my birthday, not acknowledging me at all, or gifting me a simple card. It was about him going behind my back and making arrangements with his friends on the nights we planned to go over household budgets and responsibilities. It was about him claiming to be depressed, but refusing to utilize mental health resources I set him up with. It was about him failing to do sweet gestures or initiate romance, but constantly begging for head and pussy. It was about him making excuses, giving me fractions of what he said he gave his exes, and then blaming trauma from his exes as justification for his newfound lackluster partnership with me. I was fucking tired. And so I blacked out a bit.
I remember telling him he needed to come home ASAP to pack his shit, or else I’d call the police. I obviously wasn’t going to call the police (lol, remember when I went to jail for throwing a water bottle?), but I needed him to get the fuck out. I sent that man $30 to pay for a Lyft, so he could come home to pack his shit. Easy work. We were almost a year into the relationship, and this man was asking why it’s important to loop me in. He was cooked.
So he brought his ass back home, and he started to pack. Man, I cried the whole time. When I calmed down a bit, I felt terrible for initiating the breakup the way I did. I was so angry when I first told him to come pack. I almost regretted it.
Almost.
I was so hurt to see him go, but in hindsight, I know it was because deep down I knew we were really done. No kiss-and-make-up, no ‘I’m sorry, this is why I did what I did’, or ‘said what I said’. No more opportunity for him to explain away his mistakes. No more chances to make me feel bad for attempting to hold him accountable. This was it. I had already felt so unsafe and alone in our relationship since I found those messages to his friend that clearly wanted to fuck me (you didn’t forget about that, did ya?). I had already felt so left out of the loop, so uncherished, so unappreciated, I think my throat chakra opened to its capacity and outpoured how I was -really- feeling, deep down inside. It just needed a trigger.
So, the breakup was an accident, sure, but it needed to happen. Some infections get too deep, I guess, and the only option is to amputate. I can count on 2 hands how many times I wanted to end the relationship. But no, I countlessly told myself: I’m being too cynical. I need to give grace. He said he’s sad today, so I should ease up a bit. I should expect less right now. I shouldn’t bring this up to him; he won’t listen to me. He won’t be able to handle it. I should just handle this myself.
At some point, I started fitting myself into a box, expecting to be disappointed by him. At some point, I started accepting a sliver of the love he introduced himself with. It was my fault he thought that shit was okay. I stopped holding him accountable; I stopped expecting him to show up and come through. It was my fault for making him think this was a safe space to mishandle me.
When he left that night, we hugged goodbye. He kissed my forehead. I cried on the living room floor for an hour, and then stepped into the kitchen.
In the dish rack, dishes I washed that he’d promised to wash 4 days ago. On the family whiteboard, a list of things I asked him to do, all still unchecked and unnoticed. In the fridge, his unfinished ginger juice, which he promised to make me the week before. And in the microwave, the cooked mushrooms he promised to prep but didn’t, cooked and stored neatly, waiting for him under some plastic wrap.