Picked the Wrong Guy
When the blood flowed, I knew it was over
Do you own a pair of shoes you love, but they don’t fit right? You bought them thinking, “I’ll break ‘em in.” Every time you wear them, you look fabulous, but at the end of the day, your blisters throb.
You keep them though, hopeful ‘this’ time they won’t hurt.
My three-and-half year relationship with David was an amazing pair of shoes that never fit right.
But damn did I want them to.
I so wanted this relationship to work! David’s a great guy and, (oy!) what an origin story! I met him in my kitchen — he was cooking a dish to share at one of my Audrey’s Tent Jewish singles events.
He asked me out for six months before I said yes. He’s way, way younger than me, tall, strong, handsome, Jewish, ½ Israeli, a Ph.D. physicist who can fix anything, cooks, is kind, loving, and loyal. My three sons even like him!
Despite all of his wonderful qualities and how amazing it appeared, we were not good match. I know, I’m a matchmaker.
We looked happy, but I was so unhappy. Those ill-fitting shoes were on and off again all the time. The reasons are irrelevant to this story. What is relevant, is why I knew I had to finally end it for good.
Why now?
Because the blood began to flow.
It wasn’t only that the shoes hurt, I began to hurt myself the same way I did when I knew my marriage was over.
I felt self-loathing for staying in a broken relationship — so I literally began to claw at my skin.
Pick, pick, bleed, pick, pick, bleed. All…over…my….body.
Ever heard of trichotillomania?
Hair pulling, nail-biting, skin picking?
It’s a disorder where you subconsciously hurt yourself, over and over again.
I had only done this twice before; once when I was 12 years old when my cocaine-addicted father legally gave up parental rights to me; then again when my 18-year marriage hurled towards the black hole of death.
When my marriage was unraveling, my skin picking became so bad, I dressed like an Orthodox Jewish modest (tznius) woman covering my arms and legs as a sign of piety.
I was not pious, I was a self-destructive disaster and my bloody body parts were proof.
The open wounds were a physical manifestation of my unhappiness.
After I separated, I started running 2–3 miles a day. I stopped picking. The endorphins were the drug I needed to heal.
I felt strong and stopped hating myself for staying miserable for so long.
But then I was covered in scars.
Remember my Dad who gave up parental rights to me? Well, we didn’t speak for 10 years. He got clean, became a lifetime NA member and never relapsed. When we reconnected, he became my champion, supporting me in life’s every ups and downs. I could tell him anything.
I showed him how I had hurt myself. I was ashamed. I wanted to physically erase my past. He understood. The only way to remove the scars was plastic surgery. It was expensive and he lovingly paid for it.
One by one, the surgeon lasered away every…single…scar. It took forever.
The agony of the procedure made me vow I’d never allow myself to be that unhappy to start picking again.
The scars were gone, I forgot the pain, and over time, I forgot my promise to myself.
During most of my relationship with David, I refused to accept I never felt comfortable. I needed a powerful sign to know we were done.
I got that sign with the bloody stains on my sheets and clothes. I was picking again.
I was devastated. I had no one to call. I had never shared my bloody secret with anyone except my Dad and he died three years ago.
I had to own it. My body told me it was over. I had to find the courage to end what seemed like an idyllic love story.
I did, then I wrote this piece, and almost instantly the picking stopped.
I’m so sad I couldn’t make our relationship work. David’s sad too. It wasn’t meant to be. I pray for us both the next love we find is a perfect fit.
Until then, you’ll see me running every morning on the beach, sometimes crying while I sprint, savoring those healing endorphins and the realization, if the shoes or man don’t fit, I’ll never break ‘em in.
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