So Much I Want to Tell You

by Anna Akana

  “You gave the actor your number?”

  “Why? Jealous?”

  “He’s a doctor on the show! You could get fired.”

  I don’t know if I really could’ve gotten fired for giving a dude my number, but after learning who he was, I could certainly see how the higher-ups might worry that I was a delusional stalker. (How right they’d be—just about the wrong guy.)

  I had a distorted view of courtship. I’d spent a lot of my life aggressively chasing the guys I wanted, despite having read over and over again that men loved chasing women. I couldn’t help it. I still can’t help it. When I want something, I go for it. I’m too worried that I’ll regret it if I don’t. But aggressiveness, especially when it’s coming from a woman who wants to rip your pants off, can be intimidating. I’ve been told by more than one friend that they would describe me as “aggro.” It makes me a great businesswoman but not a great romantic partner. I go at warp speed, in my head and in real life.

  No matter how delusional I may have been, Dick eventually said I was growing on him. I’d spend the night at his house, we’d text while we both worked, and he’d confide in me. He told me his brother had committed suicide. Just like my sister. It seemed like more than a coincidence—I took it as a sign that we belonged together.

  Dick and I dated for two years and some change, but the only consistent thing about our relationship was that he would cheat on me every three months. And every three months he would admit his infidelity, cry, and say he was sorry. He blamed his behavior on his brother’s suicide, saying it had left him broken and damaged. Convinced that this was just a test of our love, I told myself that I understood the whole self-sabotage thing. I’d been there. After all, I’d run away from doing stand-up for the same reasons, hadn’t I? Wasn’t that what guilt made you do—ruin the good thing in your life?

  Though Dick was a serial cheater, we had good times. We laughed very hard together, had our own weird games, and talked about everything and anything (mostly death, for obvious reasons). He could be very generous and very kind. He cried about his brother a lot, and I comforted him. I even wrote him songs, which I would only play for him if he closed his eyes because I was insecure. I was so infatuated with this guy that I agreed to have an open relationship when he insisted on it.

  And I hated it. I had sex with one other man (with Dick’s encouragement, ew) and it felt emotionally confusing. I’m not cut out for casual sex. I can’t be intimate with someone unless I have romantic feelings (or delusions) for them.

  Instead of walking away from him and the clearly toxic relationship, I became one of those paranoid snoops, going through all of his shit when he left the house. I found out his phone’s passcode and would wait until he fell asleep to pore over his messages. They were never good. Girls were always sending him dirty photos, which would lead me to scream and wake him up. Then he’d get mad that I’d violated his privacy, and the cycle would repeat.

  I realized he was a sex addict when I hacked into his computer and saw that he’d been trolling chubby-chaser sites. He had a string of emails with women of all shapes and sizes. Up until this point, I’d wondered why I wasn’t pretty enough or smart enough to hold his attention. Why did he need other women? But now it finally all made sense. It’s not that I wasn’t enough. No one was enough for him. He had an insatiable urge.

  Despite these very clear red flags, we stayed together for two and a half years…during which time I got pregnant.

  I wasn’t great at taking the pill. I was working four jobs, attending comedy and acting classes, and filming videos every week. I’d go to sleep late and wake up early, often forgetting to take a pill that day because I was running late for my morning gig. But whatever, right? I wasn’t going to get pregnant. I’d already lost my sister; surely the universe would give me a break.

  One morning I was taking a shower and my nipples felt weird. I knew instantly. I went to the drugstore, awkwardly paid for my single item while avoiding eye contact with the cashier, and peed in their bathroom three times. The results confirmed what I already knew: smiley face, smiley face, smiley fucking face.

  The conversation (if you could call it that) that Dick and I had was short: he told me his sister had had an abortion years ago, and now she was an adult and ready for the baby she had on the way! The same could be said for me! This wasn’t a great time for me to have kids—I should wait until I was older, much older, and probably with another guy, to have a baby!

  Seriously. He told me I would probably have a baby with another guy.

  But there was no real discussion about what we would do. To him, there was only one option: abort. I wasn’t so sure. I wanted to think it through. After all, I had spent years secretly judging my friends for getting abortions. How could they destroy a life like that? A life that was half their own? How could they refuse adoption? I thought of them as selfish human beings who killed something that never stood a chance. The view was great from that high-ass horse.

  But of course, when it happens to you, you go through the same reality check that they do.

  Am I ready to be a mom? No.

  Does Dick want to be a dad? No.

  Do I have the financial means to support a child? No. I can barely afford to feed my three cats.

  Would I give up my cats to support this kid? No.

  Would I give up my career for a kid neither of us wanted? No.

  If I had a kid, I would resent him/her for getting in the way of my dreams. Dick wouldn’t have married me, so I’d probably be a single mom, still clinging to the idea that two broken people could complete each other. I eventually came to the same conclusion as Dick: neither of us was fit to be a parent. I could almost see him mentally fist-bumping himself.

  We went to Planned Parenthood. Dick stayed in the waiting room while I went to see the doctor. They told me I was only seven days pregnant—the doctor was very impressed when I told him my clairvoyant nipple story—and I was given an abortion pill. I was told I’d have to stay at home all day resting, as I’d bleed heavily and experience excruciating cramps for the next few hours. I thanked them, took the pill, and left. Dick wasn’t in the waiting room. He didn’t respond to my calls. So while I waited for him (he was my ride home), I went to a store to get something to eat.

  What the doctor didn’t tell me about the pill is that it makes you nauseous. I threw up in the trash bin inside the store. Everyone looked at me in disgust and horror, and because I was so embarrassed, I blurted out, “I’m sorry! I’m pregnant!”

  If I’m being honest, I loved the shift that occurred right then. Everyone’s revolted expressions immediately morphed into ones of sympathy. The clerk behind the counter rushed to get me some water, gently patting me on the back. Girls looked on with what seemed like admiration in their eyes—oh, pregnancy, that must mean someone wants her, that must mean she is loved.

  And while I’m being honest, I’ll admit that I liked being thought of as pregnant. It made me want to walk around with a pregnant belly and see how I would be treated. All the doors that would be opened for me! Perhaps people would even offer to buy me something to eat. For some reason, I see a lot of pregnant women being offered food. #Dreams.

  I imagined being nine months pregnant. I imagined raising a child. I imagined a completely different path for myself. But there was one thing I wanted in order to go down that path: someone who truly loved me. Someone who would be with me every step of the way. Someone who I could trust to be there when I walked out of Planned Parenthood.

  At that moment I knew I wanted to be a mom but that this wasn’t my time to be one. I knew that if I brought a child into the world, I wanted to give him or her the best chance. I wanted to be in a position to give a child all of my love and attention. I wanted to be with a man who loved me, in a relationship where a child was wanted.

  Dick finally showed up and took me home. I bled and cried and cramped for three hours, with a hot water bottle on my stomach and Netflix documentaries playing
on the TV. He took care of me as best he could, which means that he was texting a lot and occasionally checking in. There wasn’t much he could do, but he definitely didn’t meet my cuddle expectations.

  I lay there, wondering about the life I was getting rid of. Would it have been a boy or a girl? What would he or she have been like? Maybe this was the baby who’d have grown into the person who cured cancer. Or maybe it would have grown up to be a mass shooter and I was preventing a tragedy. So many what-if scenarios played out in my mind. I wondered if I was doing the right thing. If this was murder. If I was a bad person. If I’d ever have children again.

  But I was done with being delusional. I knew the kindest thing I could do was to not have the baby. It deserved to have the same childhood I’d had: two loving parents who were ready to raise a family together. I cried, thinking about how badly I wanted that someday. I wondered if I would ever have it. I worried that something would go horribly wrong with this abortion pill and I’d be left barren because of it.

  When it was over, I touched my stomach and vowed that I would never go through that shit again. The next time I got pregnant, it would be when I was ready.

  And I haven’t been pregnant since. Cue the parade.

  If I’m ever concerned that there may be a chance, I buy Plan B—the morning-after pill. I’ve mentally apologized to all the high school friends I judged when they confided in me that they’d gotten abortions. And secretly, to this day, I still wonder how psychic my nipples are. That’s insane, right? How did they know? I felt like Karen from Mean Girls: there’s a 70 percent chance you’re already pregnant.

  After the abortion was over, Dick took my hand. He stroked my head, looked into my eyes, and asked, “So, how would you like to pay me back for your half of the abortion? We could do $10 a week, or…?”

  I wish that I could say that Dick and I broke up after this.

  But we didn’t.

  I still thought Dick was my spiritual soulmate. That he was the only person who could possibly understand what I had been through, and vice versa. He was tall and handsome. I liked the way he smelled and the color of his eyes and that he took me to Buddhist meditation sessions. He made me push past my boundaries, both physically and mentally.

  He’s the reason I went on a seven-day silent meditation retreat. Funnily enough, he bailed on that retreat at the last minute. And even funnier, the retreat is the thing that gave me the strength to finally leave him. A few days after I’d gotten back, he showed up at my house in the morning, crying. He’d cheated again.

  While I’d been off for a week in a secluded temple in Joshua Tree, my days spent alternating between half-hour sessions of silent walking and sitting meditation, he’d found someone at a bar and hooked up with them. I’d just spent seven grueling days in complete silence (except for the two times I caved and called Dick just for the reassurance that sound still existed). I had spent seven days sitting with myself, walking with myself, and living with myself.

  On the last day of my retreat, a day when we could finally talk to one another, I felt like I’d found myself. We all had to go around and say one word that summed up our experience. People said words like “love” and “whole” and “discovery.” I was the last one to go. I said the famous word from Mary Poppins: “supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.”

  Everyone laughed.

  And it clicked: this is me.

  I’m a person who makes other people laugh. It was one of the only moments in my life when I’ve been 100 percent sure of who I am. I felt truly peaceful and I loved myself without shame or neurosis or arrogance.

  While I was having the most revealing, vulnerable, and self-loving moment of my life, Dick was sticking his dick in someone else.

  So when he showed up at my door, crying and begging for forgiveness in the early hours of the morning, I finally thought: fuck this guy. I didn’t hate him, but after spending seven silent days with myself in the desert, I had finally found my self-esteem. I knew I deserved better than this. I wanted someone who wouldn’t cheat on me every three months. Someone who loved himself enough to love me. Someone who didn’t try to come up with a payment plan for an abortion the moment after it happened. I gave Dick a hug and I told him it was over between us. Out in the desert, I’d finally found some self-respect.

  So…have you taken your birth control today?

  The Hardest Part of Being in an Emotionally Abusive Relationship Is Actually Admitting That You’re in One

  Right after my breakup with Dick, I wanted to focus on myself. I had just come from a beautiful experience in the desert, and I wanted to take full advantage of the wisdom that I’d found there. I vowed to stay single and spend more time alone.

  Then I met Cameron.

  Cameron had the kind of confidence that only comes from self-made success. He was funny and handsome and he knew it. He was sharp and direct, and we were immediately attracted to each other.

  We dated hard and fast, moving in together after three months. The first six months of our relationship were wonderful. We were having sex every single day, frequently going out on dates, and falling deeply in love with each other. Cameron was intelligent and thoughtful and could make me laugh. I admired him. He felt too good to be true.

  And he was. Our fights would often end with him storming out of our apartment. I’d call him and he’d turn off his phone, so I’d cry until he decided to call me back or return home. Once the honeymoon phase was over, he became distant. He devoted himself to work, and it was all he wanted to do or talk about. He became increasingly frustrated with his business and colleagues, often citing them as the reason for ruining our night.

  I had my first panic attack with him. We were sitting in a restaurant when all of a sudden I started hyperventilating. I had no idea what was happening to me. I felt afraid for no reason, I was short of breath, and my heart started pounding. He didn’t know what to do, and I couldn’t communicate what I needed from him. He asked for the bill so that we could leave, but I told him not to. He was confused: Did I want to leave or not? I didn’t know. I felt frozen—and all I wanted to do was wait for it to be over. I told him no, I didn’t want to leave just yet, but he paid the bill anyway.

  We left the restaurant, but he was furious that I couldn’t communicate. He said he had no idea what I wanted and why I was being so difficult. He started screaming at me and said I was a bitch. I was surprised by his behavior. He was someone who’d suffered from panic attacks before. When we’d be out socializing, he’d sometimes have the exact same symptoms and I’d gently lead us out of the venue until he calmed down. Instead of recognizing what I was going through as something he knew all too well, he assumed I was being difficult.

  I walked on eggshells around him. I’d be singing in the kitchen and all of a sudden I’d hear this terrifyingly raw scream. I’d run over to the bathroom, thinking he must have fallen and broken something, and ask what was wrong and if he was okay. And through the bathroom door he’d tell me to shut the fuck up, to stop singing because I was pissing him the fuck off.

  My response, of course, was to cry. He would apologize. I’d forgive him and dismiss the yelling as a by-product of stress or hunger. Then we’d make up until something else I did pissed him off.

  Friends and family tried to warn me. A friend of mine said, “You’re like a light. And he’s this anchor, weighing you down.” I called her dramatic, and jokingly told Cameron. He was furious. He didn’t want me to hang out with her anymore. I agreed; if she didn’t support my relationship, why should I support our friendship?

  My family wasn’t very fond of him either. He rarely came to any family functions I invited him to, and when he did come, he was sullen and quiet. My family’s attempts at conversation were met with short, one-word replies. At one point he even told me, “I don’t give a fuck about your friends or family.” He’s just cranky, I told myself. He doesn’t mean it.

  The last fight we ever had occurred when I was trying to do his bookkeeping fo
r him. I’d noticed that he hadn’t been paid for some work he’d done months earlier. When I tried to explain this to him, he exploded. “YOU HAVE NO FUCKING IDEA WHAT YOU’RE TALKING ABOUT, DO YOU?!” he shouted.

  I was more taken aback than hurt. “What?” I asked, stunned. “I’m trying to tell you that—”

  “I DON’T WANT TO TALK ABOUT THIS ANYMORE!”

  That was the moment it clicked for me. I was telling him I’d found him money, and he was screaming at me. This man would never treat me with respect. He’d never stop screaming at me.

  Was this how I wanted my relationship to be?

  My future marriage?

  No. Who the hell wants that?

  It was over.

  It took me a year of therapy to finally accept that I was in an emotionally abusive relationship. There was a part of me that would always think, “But he’s never hit me. So it’s not abuse. Right?” I didn’t see the manipulation, jealousy, domination, and constant blame as abuse. I didn’t see the bursts of anger, screaming, put-downs, and shaming as abuse. I’d make excuses for his unacceptable behavior, rationalizing it in my head. I’d shrugged off the label in therapy sessions before, saying I didn’t feel abused. Was he a bad boyfriend sometimes? Sure. An abuser? That felt too…dramatic, I guess. It felt weird. I didn’t want to acknowledge it. Didn’t want to own that label.

  But my feelings didn’t change the facts. I was in an abusive relationship. Every success I had was met with jealousy. Instead of congratulating me when I signed with a new management company, he told me I was lucky. Then he sulked for the rest of the day. When there was an article written about one of my short films, he said, “It must have been a slow news day.” He would always claim he was joking, but I knew him well enough at that point. He wasn’t. Any success I had threatened his own.

  If he was talking and I said something in response, I was interrupting. He would close his mouth and shake his head, furious that I’d interrupted him, refusing to talk further. We often argued about that. What’s a conversation if I’m not responding? I’d ask. It’s a monologue, that’s what. That only pissed him off further.