I’m not entirely sure what prompted me to Google him.
No, I lie.
I was gathering intelligence on the wildfires in L.A. And as I looked, I found myself moving the cursor further and further up the coastline.
Ah, yes, road tripped through Santa Barbara. Jogged to the ocean in Monterey. Yes, I’ve run along the coast in Santa Cruz. Stayed in Sunnyvale. Sipped coffee in Palo Alto. Ran the hills of Marin Headlands State Park. Visited the offices of Pinterest in downtown SF and was offered a job. Driven across the bridge to… Emeryville. That’s where the search began. Ah. Emeryville. So, I googled him because Emeryville is where he lived when we met and the moment I spotted it on the map I couldn’t help but wonder… “What is he doing now?”
Building a house with his new wife and her kids from a previous relationship, as well as their kid they’ve since had together in a place he took me to and told me about his dreams to live and build in that area one day. Our love for the mountains was about the only thing we had, and truly loved, between us. But I so distinctly remember the drive to Tahoe and him proudly showing me his block of land. I could see in his eyes and the way he spoke about the future that he wanted me in it. The weekends were spent playing house in Tahoe cabins, imagining a life where we marry and have kids and they learn to ski at Sugar Bowl, where he learnt how to ski growing up.
The only problem was that it all sounded incredible, but. I would have had my log cabin with exquisite stonework in the mountains. A husband who would have gladly wanted to provide for his family. Weekends skiing Tahoe in the winter and days by the lake in the summer. A life that I too, before him and well after him, have dreamed about. But, at what cost?
The only problem was, he was abusive. And for a split second that I stalked his, and his wife’s joint Instagram, I thought, “if I had shut up and been submissive, I’d be living this life instead of her”. And when I tell you it was a split second thought, it truly was. And also, it’s a weird thing to see the life you could have lived, being lived by someone else.
I’m a strong-willed, highly independent Australian girl who grew up with strong male figures where I rarely took shit from anyone and strong family traditions weren’t a thing. He grew up in a Persian family in Northern California where tradition still ran strong in his family. But of course, like any trauma bond, we had our wounds that brought us together. Except that it resulted in a tumultuous and explosive 18 months where by the end I almost had to move because I was afraid he’d break in and hurt me physically.
Our problems were that I didn’t want to be the stay at home traditional housewife. I wanted to carve out my own path but alongside my partner who was also doing the same for himself. I didn’t want to be submissive to my partner. I didn’t want kids in my twenties (hell, can’t even say I want them in my thirties). The expectation was that my life would melt into his; his wants, his desires, his dreams. I’d be expected to go along with it. Despite the screaming, yelling, angry outbursts and abusive words. And dare I have an opinion. The eggshells I walked on turned to dust with how often I had to do that.
So, when I heard the loudness of the nearby sounds around me that snapped me back to my here and now; I knew, just as I did all those years ago, that no one, no pain or anguish would ever be worth suffering through just to live that life. Losing myself and my worth would never pay enough to live that life. And even if it’s taking me longer to get to the life we dreamed of, and even if my life went down an entirely different path, at least I’m free and I’m safe and I’m whole, and I am loved, truly and deeply.
And I wished them well in that moment, because it appears like he has everything he ever wanted. Just as I do too, and that everything is my worth.