For those of you who have helped me find my inner strength, you know who you are, and I dedicate this post to you. I don’t know what I would have done without your patience and love.

For those of you who are struggling on the inside - I hope one day you find the courage to admit that it is okay to not be okay.

A year. It’s been a year since the man I was falling in love with walked away. It has been a year of growth, of self-discovery, of coming to terms with who I am, of many emotional nights crying myself to sleep, of wondering what is wrong with me…

And I’ve come to realize that one year later, despite the heartbreak, forgiveness was the key to move on and put this all in the past. But before we talk about forgiveness and stuff, let’s talk about the road it took to get me there.

Last summer, after my first school year ended and I got used to not living at home, I finally admitted and accepted the fact that I needed to address my anxiety and depression. With the help and support of my best friend Jessica, I made the first step in my journey to wellness, mindfulness, and self-care. I made an appointment with a cognitive behavioral therapist (CBT). I decided to ignore what my family believed about mental healthcare (that it wasn’t important) and chose to do this for my own sake and mindset. The guy who broke my heart made it pretty clear I was an anxiety-ridden basket case and couldn’t accept me as I was. I didn’t go seek out a therapist to make him happy or to prove to him that I was trying to “feel better” in a pathetic attempt to hope he would take me back.

Again, I did it for me.

I am writing this because I fully believe in trying to get rid of the stigma that surrounds mental healthcare. I am not afraid to admit to those who know me, that I see a therapist once a week. Now, I still haven’t told my dad, because I’m not ready to, but I’m working getting the guts to do so. But I shouldn’t have to feel skeptical about admitting it to my coworkers. I always had a fear that if I admitted at the workplace that I was seeking therapy, I could be labeled as mentally “unstable.” Then I realized…why, then, does my insurance (provided through work) consider CBT as primary, basic healthcare? My appointments are $20 co-pays, rather than $35 specialist co-pays. Basic mental healthcare should be considered necessary and important, to anyone who feels like they would benefit from it - yours truly, included. I’ve told my closest colleagues (really, they’re friends more than colleagues) that I see a therapist and it didn’t even faze them. They were incredibly supportive, and understood that on Wednesdays, I left immediately after work to make it on time to my appointments. If I ever had a particularly emotional session, they were always willing to talk to me on the phone and ease my mind - sometimes they would call me to make sure I was okay.

I’m so comfortable with telling other people (if, of course, it naturally comes up in conversation) that I’ve gotten to the point at work where I mention it casually: oh, I can’t stay after school for that meeting - I’m seeing my therapist today. Big deal.

Although my “break-up” (I use this term loosely, as, in his mind, we were never in a relationship) was the catalyst to finally getting to a therapist, there were many other factors that I knew contributed to my declining mental health. I love my parents dearly, I do. Those who know me well know that I have a strong relationship with them. As I got older, I realized that my father can be stoic and unemotional to the point where I feel like, no matter what I do in my professional or personal life…it is not good enough, even though I have spent my entire life living up to his expectations - of trying to be a perfect daughter. Case in point: we had disagreed about the man I was seeing when I decided to move out. He believed the man was only into me to get a green card, and was not going to support my decision to keep seeing him. I, of course, had faith in the guy and decided that, no, I was going to keep seeing him, so I left. I felt like I had reached my breaking point. For twenty-seven years, I had always done right by him and what he wanted. For once, I wanted to be selfish and look out for my best interests.

Then a few days after I left, my former drunkenly berated me, ditched me at a bar, and walked away from me. Yeah, we’d broken up, but not for the reasons my father thought would cause problems later on in the relationship. I spent the entire summer, after a trip to Syracuse, Chicago, and Laredo, renting a room in a townhouse, virtually alone unless one of my friends reached out to see if I wanted to get together, seeing my therapist, holding on to my continued faith in God, and trying desperately not to let the swarming rumors of what my former was telling all of our co-workers affect my attempts to heal from my broken heart:

That I was just a “hook-up,” even though his many texts and conversations had me convinced I actually meant something to him.
That I was the one who ruined everything - that I single-handedly destroyed our relationship.

Returning to work, I knew, was going to be just another challenge to talk through with my therapist - there was the fact that, yeah, I was going to have to see him every now and then…and I was also now going to have to try to ignore his friends who were spreading his vitriolic rumors about me, but whatever. I was reassured that I had my therapeutic outlet, plus the added bonus of having such an amazing group of friends at work. Slowly, but surely, I was finding my footing again.

I ended up coming back home before the summer ended. That’s when my footing slipped a bit and I ended up having some awful breakdowns with my therapist. My former kept showing up nearby where I was living at night to play tennis at the courts in my neighborhood. My landlady gave him the key to access the courts. She was friends with him. When I asked her if she could tell me when he was coming by so I could make a quick exit (just seeing his car was still a mental trigger), she flat-out refused. What made it worse is that she was telling him when I wasn’t home so he could make an appearance.

I couldn’t sleep. I didn’t like the fact that he was close by and I didn’t like that my landlady was giving him intel on when I wasn’t at home! Frankly, it was none of his business. All I wanted was to move on and live my life - and his nighttime visits weren’t allowing me to do that. I could accept the fact that I was going to see him at work. My therapist was helping me, at the time, to figure out coping strategies for that prospect. Him coming by, his car in view by where I would park, - him, essentially invading my personal space? That, I knew, wasn’t fair.

I called my mom one night and told her what was going on. I had already talked to my therapist, and we’d figured, okay, guess it’s time to find another place, even though I’d only been there for all of two months. Was it right to have to be uprooted again so suddenly? Absolutely not. I, though, was at least able to clearly realize I needed to leave for my own sake. So, I told my mom that I needed to have peace of mind with him showing up - what if our paths eventually crossed? She was worried about me, regardless of my decision, and told my dad what was happening (although I had told her not to).

This is where the love that my father can excellently convey appears. My dad didn’t say “I was right” or “I told you so.” Even a year later, he still never has. He told me to come home because he was afraid that my former would do something to hurt me. No apologies, no bitterness, nothing. Just come home. I was safely back in my old room, with my family, before I returned to work at the end of the summer. Now I’m working on my next steps of finding a place to live that I can own…with the support of my parents.

That’s not to say everything is perfect. I still struggle with my dad’s gruffness and I’m sure he thinks I’m too flighty at times, but thanks to therapy, I have figured out how to better approach my father…or when to just give him space. Even when my sister and mom feel frustrated with his stoicism, I offer them the advice my therapist gives me, and it has helped immensely on how they talk to my dad as well. My therapy has also been helpful in that I find new ways to approach how I interact with my students, especially if I’ve had a particularly stressful day or week at work. I’ve come a long way from my first few sessions, when I was the proverbial hysterical therapist’s client, short of lying on a couch - bawling her eyes out, going through a box of Kleenex, and wondering why she wasn’t good or pretty enough for the man who walked away from her. It’s so nice to have therapy sessions for other facets of my life to help create a more well-rounded me.

A year later, I am glad to say that, while I may not be the trustworthy and wear my heart on my sleeve girl that I was before this all happened, I am proud with the girl that I have become. I’m more aware of my quirks and flaws and unashamedly embrace them. I used to be someone who loved to give love with all her heart, to the point where I was used and taken advantage of. Now I know that, while I can still be giving with my love, I must also do so with caution. I shouldn’t just give my love so freely and openly - if someone truly wants my love, or even my friendship, they are going to have to truly earn it. As my therapist says, I am aware of what I bring to the “table,” both the good and not-so-good. I just need to remember that no one can have my good, if they can’t accept my not-so-good.

Him included.

I gave him my heart, my love, and my everything so quickly. He painted me such beautiful, hopeful words, and I quickly believed in his words. I believed in him. He, in the time we were “together,” didn’t provide any actions to make those words believable. He told me I was beautiful, I was his angel…that I gave him joy and peace. Who wouldn’t melt at such lovely word craft? Unfortunately, when he ended things with me and walked away, I couldn’t believe in him and anything else he told me, because he couldn’t give me the satisfaction of closure. I heard rumors he wasn’t faithful (and from more than one source) and instead of worrying about me and how I may have been impacted by this…instead of being mature enough to personally tell me he was faithful, he yelled at me over the phone and told me to stop making assumptions. Add in the nasty things he was telling his friends at work, well…it certainly didn’t help his case.

We don’t talk. At all. We go about our days as if we never had spoken to each other. He told me he wasn’t ready for a relationship, and then two months later, he was showing off his new girlfriend on social media. The girl that he always wanted me to be. When we were “together,” he told me I should grow my hair out because he preferred it longer, wanted me to stop biting my nails (he didn’t understand that I bit them due to my anxiety)…really, he told me at one point, he would be my “life coach.” Now, in my place, was someone he could be proud to show off to the world. He has now found his true beauty - a girl with long, lustrous hair, perfectly manicured nails, a sexy body, and no anxiety issues stamped on her forehead. A girl, who unlike me, didn’t need a life coach.

I know he’s hurt me in so many ways, and even though I wasn’t perfect, I don’t think I deserved the way he just left me behind. I don’t think I needed to be the target of such crude statements.

And yet, I still miss him. I know he’s been through enough in his life, and although I don’t know what to believe in what personal problems he’s told me about having an impact on how he treats women, I’ll still have a little faith in his words. I am a realist, and I know that he is never coming back. There is no fairy tale ending. He didn’t want me. I can finally admit that without feeling despondent. He is never going to apologize for the pain he caused me. He is never going to admit that he too, was at fault. He is so happy now with his true beauty, and that’s all I had ever wanted for him. I hoped I could’ve been the one to be beautiful enough for him, and to make him happy, but alas, that wasn’t meant to be. I’m so glad he’s truly, truly happy. There are days where I am angry with him, but I don’t hate him, although the jury’s out on his opinion of me. I don’t hate him - I could never hate him. I forgave him a long time ago for the heartache he caused, because if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have been able to forge ahead and be happy myself.

Therapy, really, has taught me the most important thing:

That I deserved to forgive myself.

I deserved to stop blaming me, and me only, for the end of our “relationship.” I deserved to be happy too.

One day, someone will take me as I am - short hair, anxiety, and all.

And if that someone doesn’t arrive, well…at least I know that the journey I have been on has allowed me to be happy with myself.

So, in honor of this discovery, this history nerd is making a return to producing original, historical, and occasionally dorky content, after a year of being scared to embrace who she truly is. She’s back, and going to (try to) be better than ever.

Until then…

many happy returns.

-Kate