On dodging bullets and waiting for a good one
I wish I'd wasted less time cursing my enemies and just left them to be crushed, anvil-style, by their own karma. As the great poet T.Swift once said, trash takes itself out every single time
I rarely go on Facebook these days, but the other night, an email notification from the site caught my eye. In its subject line, it said ‘Notifications from…’ followed by a very distinctive name ‒ the name of the person who, nine years ago, a man I really loved cheated on me with.
At the time, that name had been burned into my psyche; I had cursed that person. Now, I am nine years and a million emotional lightyears away from that situation… but you’re a stronger person than I am if you wouldn’t have clicked. Truth be told, it involved clicking, resetting my Facebook password and re-installing the messaging app to see what was in my inbox. Perhaps unsurprisingly, I found the time.
The message this woman had sent me was simple. “Hi Lucy. You probably won’t see this message as it will land in your ‘other’ inbox. But I just wanted to say, I guess I wanted to thank you for messaging me all those years ago, trying to warn me. I feel like I ended up living your life for a while. And I really should have listened to you when you went out of your way to warn me.”
(Actually, I had contacted her back then to find out whether my compulsively lying, gaslighting rat of an ex was seeing her, after he told me he absolutely wasn’t. She confirmed very politely that he was, but did seem upset and in the dark about the situation. I could have left it there but felt moved to tell her that this was a pattern for him, and he would surely do it to her too, sooner or later. Take it or leave it. She left it.)
If you’d have asked me a year or two ago about all of this, I’d have been slightly mortified by my actions. Why even engage? You know he’s cheating on you; just get out of the situation and move on as soon as possible. It feels so undignified, now, to meddle in a cheating rat’s next affair. That’s 36-year-old me’s perspective on it. But 27-year-old me was a degree more dramatic, deeply hurt and on some sort of vigilante mission to ruin this man’s life and save his next victim some time and heartache along the way.
Now, in 2023, I had what you always fantasise about in break-ups like that, but rarely get: validation. The message confirmed what I’d always hoped and known deep down. He is and always was a scumbag. It was never your fault. No, the next person did not “change him”. Validation! I hadn’t even asked the universe for it, not for nearly a decade, but here it was, beamed up to my lightyears-away location.
I had what you always fantasise about in break-ups like that, but rarely get: validation
It was satisfying, yes; in the way that a toasted bagel with butter is briefly, warmly satisfying. I was actually surprised by how little I felt, reading those words. Now that bloke who was so important to me in 2014 is nothing but a distant, dodged bullet. A glitch, a bump in the road. I feel genuinely sorry for this woman if he was a bigger part of her story, but I’m just glad I didn’t spend another minute embroiled in that situation.
Isn’t it fascinating that it’s the women who end up communicating in these situations ‒ me having to dig for the truth with her back then, her feeling moved to thank me this many years later? I have never had the trace of an apology from that man. He moves on to make someone else’s life a misery and never looked back. I hope the network of women around him continue to warn one another.
Here’s what I know now: I needed that rat to get to where I am now. Forget kissing frogs; you have to dodge so many bullets in order to find the best kind of man. That’s how you learn about what you don’t need ‒ love-bombing, game-playing, deception. Dodging bullets is some of the best emotional exercise you can get in your 20s. Ideally you’ll avoid just one and learn from the situation immediately; for me it was more like a cycle of four or five. Once you’ve immersed yourself in the worst of relationships, you can start shaking off that notion that the brooding, mysterious, inconsistent man is the most attractive type of all. (Thanks, Buffy-era Nineties pop culture.)
Dodging bullets is some of the best emotional exercise you can get in your 20s.
Instead, you can start looking out for the uncomplicated, golden type of man: the ones who say what they mean and mean what they say. They may not be a vortex of pain, poetry and late-night whiskies, but they are great at cuddles. They want you to meet their friends. They remember your favourite foods and cook them for you. They don’t live, narcissistically, in their own heads, preoccupied with tortuous, artistic thoughts. They’ll make great fathers. The sooner you can leave the vortex-men behind, the sooner you’ll be happy. Or maybe that’s not a hard and fast rule, but that’s how it was for me.
And as TIME magazine’s Person of the Year, Taylor Swift, observed this month: you learn, over time, that it’s not up to you to defeat your enemies. If your conduct has been good, you don’t have to ponder their choices a minute longer. Their karma, their business. In this case, as in so many, “Trash takes itself out every single time.”
The feeling of karmic retribution this week was strong, because I’m having a really great week. I didn’t need the Schadenfreude lift of knowing about someone else’s misfortunes, or repeated patterns, because life is good. It’s December. There are blue skies and frosty days. We have a cosy little nest with an extraordinarily bushy Christmas tree. I bought a little felt Labrador in a Santa hat to hang on one branch, to represent Milo. Life is peaceful and warm and feels unshakeably right. Next year is going to be a good year.
But a little smirk may have tilted my mouth as I read it. Just a tiny one.
Sorry I didn’t post a Commitment Issues last week. I was cavorting with good friends in the Cotswolds and Liverpool. You’ll be getting two this week as a result.