I survived a toxic situation, and then I realized my role

I was lying on my couch. My face twisted into a grimace. I placed one hand on my lower abdomen, acting as a makeshift heating pad to soothe the never-ending purple light attacking my uterus.

Claire, this has to stop.

I groaned.

I felt alone and afraid. This feeling started when Elizabeth, my gynecologist, called four days ago. “Your Pap smear came back abnormal, which is nothing to worry about,” she said. all A woman experiences an abnormal nipple at least once in her life. Elizabeth had the energetic, positive enthusiasm of a cheerleader as she cheered the crowd on for the Homecoming game. I wanted to believe her, but when I was 37, I had my first abnormal Pap smear.

I got married right out of college and divorced nine years later. While my ex-husband and I had our problems, infidelity was not one of them. My marriage was the tower that protected my vagina from the dangers lurking outside the castle wall. Only one prince had access. I’ve been divorced now for a year and a half, and have encountered a few wannabe princes, but mostly frogs. Having an abnormal cervix was very concerning.

Elizabeth took a sharp breath. “There was something else.”

My stomach lurched. I’ve been having lady issues (I’ll spare you the details) for the past three months. All work processes so far have been negative. There was only one stone left unturned.

“We need to bring you in for a biopsy,” Elizabeth flipped that remaining rock right over.

I took a quick inhale, choking on the now exposed dirt. I couldn’t speak.

“I promise you don’t have cancer, though! I know you don’t,” Elizabeth explained with nonchalant confidence, still the optimistic cheerleader. “I know you’re worried, so I’ll make an appointment for you as soon as possible.”

After we hung up, I was alone with my worry. I wanted to call someone to stop the doomsday spiral in my mind. My mother would be an obvious choice, but she died 12 years ago. Since the topic was about my nether region, I didn’t want to contact my father or brother. I texted my two best friends. Their “of course you don’t have cancer” texts helped a little, but I needed more. Because I was single, I didn’t have a boyfriend to hold my hand, look into my eyes and tell me everything was going to be okay.

The only person who could be considered a false friend was Patrick, a guy I referred to as “My F-boy.”

We met on Bumble…sort of. He “liked” me, and instead of liking him and matching up with him, I decided to go big on his IG since his address was on his profile. Shortly after following him, I received a direct message from him.

Hey, do I know you?

Haha not exactly… I liked you on Bumble, and you have Instagram in your bio, so…🤷♀️

So you didn’t like it but you followed me on ig hmmmm lol Watsuppp 🙂

Yes… the 24 hour window to start a conversation is a lot of pressure. This seemed easier and has been working well so far.

This is funny

This exchange started about a year and a half ago…something? “Relationship” meant a lot more emotional connection than we had. The “pose” is closer – but we didn’t have enough physical contact to even get into the pose state. We’ve only seen each other in person three times. The truth is, we were sexting our pen pals.

I told myself it was okay because it was just fun, and I didn’t have any feelings about it. Did I cry when he wronged me? Maybe a few times (or every time, who’s counting?) doesn’t mean I liked it. Because I certainly didn’t.

And I definitely He did not get any confirmation of his interest. I have never posted a single photo to my Instagram story of myself wearing an outfit he would like. Which is why I didn’t care when he responded to said stories with multiple heart and eye emojis and pleas to see me. My confidence and arrogance didn’t care how many times he told me I was beautiful. You’ll never find me smiling like an idiot on my phone reading his messages. I had complete control of the situation.

I have never sent any full or partial nudity. It was no different than if someone saw me on the beach in a bikini… except for my exaggerated arch of my back to show off my ass the way he wanted.

Sometimes, I had fleeting moments of clarity and honesty with myself. What Patrick and I were doing was weird and ridiculous. I used to get bored of his dick pictures and empty promises of foreplay, especially when we’d make plans to see each other and he’d bail or disappear completely at the last minute. I’ll stop him, cut him off from the cold. Then there comes a day when I’m bored or very lonely, and my thoughts turn to Patrick.

Hmm…I wonder what he’s up to.

Within a few hours of the ban being lifted, I received a message from him. He never asked me why I blocked him or got upset with me because of it. He was just happy to be back. Our unspoken agreement was that we could walk in and out of each other’s lives without explanation. We both knew the other would be there when we finally wanted to come back. Patrick and I enjoyed the daily companionship of a relationship without the responsibilities or obligations of an actual relationship.

We didn’t need in-depth emotional conversations to discover each other. The sheer volume of our connections built a bond in a slow but imperceptible way. We both know exactly how to get each other’s attention. I knew that my Snap video of me winking at him while kissing him would always get a response, and he knew how to get me to respond when I was upset with him.

Just like after three straight days with no response from me, Patrick sent a Snap video of himself singing “Bob the Builder” while assembling new furniture. I laughed and shook my head as he sang the song and flexed his muscles. He was so sweet I couldn’t help but respond. I hated it when he did cool things like this.

In the month before the biopsy, Patrick and I hardly spoke at all. At first, it seemed like one of our usual quiet periods. But then all my winks, pops, and even his favorite nickname were left on read. I suspected something was different when my usual tactics received no response.

Damn, he might be gone this time. He must have started dating someone. This is good. whatever.

I felt sad because of the void in which his texts and footage existed. As I dealt with the possibility of cancer, I longed to connect with him for comfort.

Claire, do you think he’s the kind of person who would be there for you at a time like this? He can’t even show up for sex.

I had to ask myself: why? Why did I not only tolerate, but encourage communication with a man who repeatedly demonstrated that he was completely uninterested in a real relationship with me? The unwanted truth bothered me.

As much as I loved teasing Patrick about being a boy, the truth was that I was just like him. I rejected his attempts to convince me to go on real dates with him, like the time he asked me to go to the air show or the night he wanted to go to the beach together. I played games and manipulated him and treated him like crap. I considered it would always be my safety net when the mixed, volatile signals I gave the other players led to another phase of failed talk.

With Patrick as my eager and willing replacement, I didn’t have to worry about retaining a leading man. Throughout my time playing with Patrick, I’ve been mastering toxic defense mechanisms. I was getting better and better at distancing myself from the relationship and I didn’t even realize it.

I sat on the couch alone after the biopsy and thought about how I got to this moment. The physical pain of being scratched in the deepest, most feminine part of my body forced me to connect with the emotional pain Patrick used to avoid being alone.

By keeping a barrier between us, I thought I was safe from heartbreak and manipulation — things I’d struggled with in previous relationships. Instead, I was playing the role of “relationship” in a distorted reality. I didn’t want to be someone’s online fantasy girl, and I didn’t want to miss some dude. At that moment, I started making conscious decisions to become a woman worth being in a relationship with. The first step was to end things with Patrick.

After my biopsy came back negative, so did he.

“Hey. Sorry, I haven’t been around much.” He never apologized before. His usual cheerful energy was laced with guilt, like a dog with its tail between its legs. “I met a girl, and I thought I was in love or something, but I was wrong.” We had never talked about anyone else to each other before.

I wasn’t surprised or angry about the other girl. His weakness was alarming. But it’s too late. “I know the feeling, and I’m sorry you’re going through this. I’m not the right person to comfort you. Especially when I’m hurting you.”

“I’m sorry…can I see you?”

I don’t want to play our game anymore. “You should forget about me. Please.”

Patrick’s idea of ​​ignoring me was creeping into my Instagram stories. Eventually, emojis returned, and texts and snapshots quickly followed. So, I blocked him. And unlike all previous times, it remains blocked to this day, more than a year later.

Now, if I see someone’s name on my phone screen more often than I do in person, it’s time to move on.

This article originally appeared on HuffPost In June 2024.