When I was a 22-year-old living in New York City, I met a man. He was moderately famous, which at that age, already had me head over heels. He was considerably older than me, considerably richer (which is to say, he had money,) and very into me, as I was to him. I met him a week after I moved to the Upper West Side the summer of 2005, and I dated him until I moved back to DC, having exhausted my immature mind and wallet in New York. This fellow was the first relationship I ever shared a mutual love with–that is to say, I loved him at the same time he loved me.
I have this endgame love fantasy that when I meet a man…the man…one balmy Saturday, we’ll wake up, leash the dog (a toy poodle or a shiba inu or something else fuzzy and precious), and I’ll walk out the door with the dog,the man, and my Celine tote–overpriced, but in this fantasy I can afford it. We go to the farmer’s market, picking up locally grown kale, bluefish, and a jar of pomegranate preserves for dinner that night. You know–super-gay, comfortable, perfect, aesthetically pleasing love on the weekend. He was the first guy I was able to visually place in that fantasy.
Unfortunately, while we both loved each other immensely–and almost moved in together–we also both had mental issues to work through. Like I said, I was immature: I had problems with responsibility; I used to flirt with his friends to make him mad; he was bipolar and only sometimes took medication for it. Obviously these two personality types don’t mix for long. We used to have these intense screaming-over-the-phone fights that would make everyone around me uncomfortable–and I wouldn’t care. What I did care about is what he used to say to me. I won’t repeat them because this is a family blog (where the word asshat is allowed, of course). I guess not telling you anything about what he said is a cop-out. I will say he used a lot of C-, W-, F-and S-words with me, in increasingly unpleasant combinations. A lot of it was because of his swings between mania and depression, but since he chose to forego medication, it was something I had to deal with the whole time I was with him. Those things he used to say to me were a lot like the things Fitz says to Olivia when he’s angry at her. That kind of emotional abuse is something I couldn’t live with, and after some thinking, and crying, (and pondering, and weeping,) I broke up with him a little bit before I moved south.
And now how this all connects: that last scene between Olivia and Fitz reminded me why I had no regrets moving to DC (at least, initially). No person–and I don’t care what they’ve done–should ever be spoken to like Fitz spoke to Olivia. This is especially pertinent in a relationship. For me, Fitzgerald Grant has officially passed over “flawed” and into “bad person.” It appears Olivia thinks so, too, since she accepts the date with Captain Donut, who again, is the wrong man, since there’s probably no good explanation as to why he’s spying on her. I’m glad I had the forethought to break up with someone to continue my hunt for happiness, but will Shonda ever let Olivia find a little happiness of her own?