Early one morning this past December, my boyfriend stumbled out of bed and over to his dresser, then grumbled 4 words that sent a shockwave through my body: "You've gotta move out." I didn't know what I'd done to deserve this, but I did know that he'd been growing more and more irritated with my presence over the past few months. I had been in a deep depression for some time, and it seemed that he'd finally had enough of having a sick girlfriend who was too depressed to leave her bedroom most days. Rather than offering a loving shoulder to cry on or a helping hand toward some sort of recovery, he'd started cheating on me with several different women and frequently blew up at me for odd non-reasons (and, of course, would apologize profusely the next day). I almost brushed his comment off as another cranky outburst, but a little later that day he sent me a text confirming his wish for me to move out.
My mind began to race. What was I going to do? Where was I going to go? I had many options - as several friends had offered to rent me rooms in the recent past - but I was tired of imposing on other people to get me by while I figured out my life. That's when it hit me: I needed to get the fuck out of Seattle. I needed to go out on my own and explore the world and figure out my place in it. So I started searching Craigslist for a camper van that I could live in while I was on the road. I was going to become a vandweller! The thought of it was exciting. As a matter of fact, it was the first time I'd been excited about my life in a long, long time.
A few days later, Adam and I had a heartfelt talk, during which he told me that asking me to move out was one of the biggest mistakes of his life and he wished he could take it back - a sentiment he would repeat many times over the next few months. I told him not to be so hard on himself. While the delivery method was a bit harsh, he was right that we shouldn't be living together, trying to salvage our dying relationship. Besides, I'd already settled on my plan to buy a van and go out on my journey of self-discovery, and I was really excited about it. He enthusiastically asked if he could help me find a good van and fix it up. Yes, I told him, but I wanted to use this project as a learning experience so that I could learn to work on the van myself. I wanted to be there every step of the way, asking questions and using my own hands to build my perfect new home.
Not long after that, I found my van. It was a 1981 Volkswagon Riviera camper van, and it was beautiful. Adam accompanied me on the test drive and asked all the right questions to make sure I was getting a good deal. It was a great deal, he said. That was all I needed. My inner hippie squealed with delight. My outer skeptic laughed at the Grateful Dead stickers all over the back. And every part of me felt a huge surge of...well...life! I'd been living in a fog for so long, I'd almost forgotten what it felt like to be alive. But now I was feeling it in full force, and it felt amazing. I was beaming as I drove my future home back to my current home.
Adam and I excitedly brainstormed plans for the remodel. We'd replace the grungy carpet with hardwoods, replace the clunky cabinets with lighter, more efficient ones, and completely rebuild the kitchenette. Basically, we'd gut the whole thing and start from scratch. So, with this plan in place, we tore out every last cabinet, disconnected every last bit of wiring, and pulled out the bench. My perfectly acceptible camper van was now just a shell with amazing potential.
It wasn't long before we started running into problems. My new job made it difficult for me to find time to work on the van, and I was still struggling with a very intense depressive episode that affected my energy and motivation. Adam grew impatient, and finally blew up at me. He told me to just leave him alone to finish the project himself. I argued at first, still hoping that this could be a learning experience for me and that I'd be able to take some pride in having my own hands involved in the remodel. But he was right, my lack of availability and energy was drastically hindering the project, so finally I gave in. I joined him when I was able, and even when I couldn't I often brought him a hot cup of coffee or set up a boom box so he could listen to music while he worked (admittedly, I didn't always choose music that pleased him, but this shouldn't surprise anyone who knows me very well). I thanked him almost every day for all of the work he was putting in on my van, and told him how impressive and amazing his work was.
After a month or so, his enthusiasm for the project began to wane. We'd installed the new floors and he'd put in a "new" set of captain's chairs in the front that we'd picked out from the auto junk yard. He'd started working on a new bench that would fold out into a bed. But it seemed that the project had inspired him to start working on his own RV for his own upcoming road trip, and he worked on my van less and less. During this time, he also continued to find reasons to blow up at me - often not related to the van, but at least once he spent an evening criticizing me for not working on my van. He often accused me of not really planning to leave, and when I had the courage and energy to argue, I would remind him that there was little I could do about leaving until my van had been rebuilt, and he'd demanded that I not help him. During each blowup, he'd exclaim that he was done with the van. I was on my own. And then, as usual, the next day he'd apologize and assure me that he'd continue the project. It was an extremely stressful cycle. The emotional blowups took their toll on my already delicate mental health, as did the constant fear that both me and my future home would be abandoned - both of us just empty shells of what we were when we got there. But I held tightly to my belief that his man loved me, wanted the best for me, and would follow through on the project he'd started. What a foolish mistake...
As the weeks went by, our relationship deteriorated more and more. Our bad days started to outnumber our good days, and my van sat unfinished. His desire to work on the project was as erratic as his moods, but I didn't know what to do. I felt trapped in a desperate situation. I was depending on an unstable man who consistently cheated on me, lied to me, and berated me. I knew I should just leave. Everyone around me knew I should leave. But a weakness inside of me still held on to the belief that if we could just keep afloat until the van was ready to go, we could take a much-needed break and get a fresh start when I returned. I wanted so badly to believe that we could make this work. I wish now, through all of this, that I'd taken the time to ask myself WHY I wanted it to work. What about this relationship was worth saving?
I don't even remember what we'd been fighting about the night he decided to move into his RV, but this time I knew it was finally over. Maybe he would apologize the next day, as he always did, but I was done. I would no longer depend on him for anything. Not for love and acceptance, not for room and board, and not for my van. I began making plans to use a combination of thrift store furniture to make the van livable, and hoped to be on the road by the end of the month. But, as I worked and planned, I began to grow angry. How could he just leave things this way? He had asked to remodel the van. He'd convinced me to rip out all of the working parts to make room for his amazing new design. He'd dangled the promise of a beautiful new home in front of me, only to pull it away, again and again. He'd used it as a weapon to hurt and frighten me when he lost his temper. God damn him, he OWED it to me to follow through on his word and finish what he'd started. Didn't he?
I messaged him to ask if I could come over so we could talk about finishing the van, and after some resistance he agreed. But, after a short period of pleasant chatting, our conversation soon deteriorated into yet another of his rants, berating me for allowing my depression to impact his life so much (something I'd cried about and apologized for more times than I could count over the past 6 months). As he talked, I began to realize that his words weren't affecting me the way they used to. I felt no urge to apologize or cry. In fact, I didn't feel anything at all. It was over. Our relationship. The fighting. The feeling of worthlessness, like I deserved to be treated with such disrespect. The fear of the future. For the first time in months, I felt really good about myself, and nothing this angry, miserable man said would change that. I was free. The next day, I packed all of my belongings in my van and left Seattle.
So, here I am. My van is unfinished, but I'm doing my best to complete it with the resources I have available to me. I know it'll get done, and I'm glad that I will be able to take pride in something I put together with my own two hands (and maybe a few helping hands from people who actually do care about and want the best for me).
