Everyone knows that saying “It’s not you; It’s me.” is a load of baloney, but in this case it actually is true. This isn’t your fault. It was all about me. I’ve changed. Our relationship was unhealthy from the beginning. Honestly, I let it go way too far.

We started up in college, and frankly I’m very grateful I got that far. Many girls fall into these abusive, unhealthy relationships in MIDDLE SCHOOL you guys. In college I was changing and everything was new. I was reeling and unsure of who I was. Insecurity set in and there you were.

I turned to you to quantify and reinforce the intense fear and dislike I was feeling, while simultaneously hoping you’d tell me something different, make me feel better, motivate me to become the person I desperately wanted to be. I’d be wearing an outfit I loved, working hard at my job and classes, but feel a lurking discontent and worry. I had to get back to you. I had to remember what you’d told me that morning.

A great night at The Cocoa Bean with my friends would suddenly turn sour, knowing that what I just did, what I just enjoyed, was going to punish me later because of our relationship. But that was the problem. Because even when I was “good,” even when I was trying SO HARD, it didn’t necessarily affect the way you treated me or the answers you’d give me.

You kept me guessing. Kept me addicted. Kept me coming back just to see. Maybe it’ll be different today? Well, it was unsatisfactory this morning but perhaps tonight it’ll be better. OH MY GOSH I FINALLY GOT A TINY CONCESSION FROM YOU I CAN’T BELIE- oh never mind it immediately went back to the way it was. No, omg, somehow worse.

You had me staring myself in the mirror, trying to scare myself into compliance with the opposite of affirmations. “You’re never going to get married if you keep this up. You’re awful. Disgusting. Embarrassing. Everyone thinks so. Get it together. Exercise some self control.”

But hang on. I said it was me, and not you. I meant that. Your job was to measure one thing. You didn’t tell me to berate myself. You didn’t attach any value to the facts you communicated. You just reported facts. I’m the one who let you follow me to girls’ nights, into fitting rooms, into the inner circle of my brain.

Meeting Ryan was the first fatal blow to our relationship, because he didn’t know or care what you said. For the first time, our relationship didn’t matter to me. It was one reason I knew so quickly that Ryan was IT for me. He cut through what had become an abusive, addictive, painful relationship and made me forget all about it – almost instantly. He made me feel and become all the things you could never possibly tell me, because you can’t. All you can give is a number.

I forgot about you for a long time, and thankfully it never again got as bad as it was when I met Ryan. But then I decided to let you be a factor in my pregnancies. I’m ashamed that I let the poison of my lingering addiction into my mind while carrying and raising two little girls. How dangerous. Even though it was just a shadow of it’s former toxicity, I wish I could go back and say “Girl. Cut it loose.”

Finally I ghosted you like a year ago. I decided I was done with our BS, done with you looking at me like that when I step out of the shower or had a really good, really big dinner. Done with thinking about you while I was at the gym, or when someone else would post about THEIR relationship with you. Done. I happily set you aside and did not think about you again.

Until I was KonMari-ing this week, and stumbled across you. I forgot I had tucked you away. In my mind you were thrown out with the trash, hauled to the dump, never to shame me again. But no. I hadn’t officially broken up with you.

It was actually good to see you. It’s always nice to run into an ex and realize they no longer hold any spell over you, occupy no real estate in your brain. To realize how much happier and better you are now, and that you can hold your head high and confident as you walk away.

And I did. I marched that dusty, forgotten scale straight out to my city-assigned trash can and unceremoniously dropped it on top of a reeking bag from Loney’s diaper pail.

It’s over between us, officially. I don’t need you anymore. You never really worked for me. We just weren’t good together. You clipped my wings and I just didn’t have the self control to see you for what you were – a calculator. But I do now, and I know that the number you report means basically nothing to me. I have no use for it.

Plus my bathroom is messy enough with the bobby pins, Old Navy tags, and black, curly Ryan hairs.

NO thank u, next.