The Break-Up

Trigger warning, content warning- whatever you want to call it, slap it on this story because we’re getting really dark with this one.

I broke up with Jilly.

We hadn’t been dating very long when I launched Matt’s Tall Tales- but right from the start, Jilly Schwab was a key contributor and component part of this project. Jilly provided stories, art, and lots of support. To be brutally honest, I’m not entirely sure I would have gotten Matt’s Tall Tales off the ground without them. More than a romantic partner, Jilly was a collaborator and an inspiration for my writing.

It’s worth mentioning that Jilly goes by the gender-neutral they/them pronouns now. A recent development, I was planning to write a story about it before this long, extended break-up began.

Not long after Blade the cat died, Jilly and I were lying in bed. We were having a quiet, intimate moment when they mentioned an old friend of theirs was moving back to Philadelphia. “Cool,” I said, thinking nothing of it.

But Jilly wasn’t done with that thought. They started lamenting how their friendship with this person had waned over time. Things were more awkward and weird than they had been in the past.

What follows is not a verbatim recitation of our conversation- my memory of that night is a little fuzzy at best- but it is the most accurate representation of our words that I can recreate.

“Why’s that?” I asked.

“I violated their consent in a way that I’m not really comfortable with.”

“What did you do?”

As I have no interest in potentially doxxing a victim, I won’t be sharing the story Jilly told me. Here are the relevant details:

• This event took place long ago- before Jilly and I met.
• They were in a group environment with more of Jilly’s friends.
• There were hard drugs involved.
• Jilly sexually assaulted this friend.

Jilly took a long time to recite this story to me. It was clearly painful for them to recall- perhaps as painful as it was for me to hear it. I took a moment to process the information that Jilly was capable of such a thing. As I was thinking, processing, trying to figure out what to do with this new knowledge, Jilly spoke.

“Are you judging me?”

That flustered me. It seemed an irrelevant question- Why was that the first thing they thought of to say? My mind raced. I needed to say something. Jilly demanded a response. What I said was, “Your story demonstrates that it is important and necessary for my safety that that culture- and those friends of yours- stay as far away from me as possible.”

For context, I never really met any of Jilly’s friends in the time we were together. Partially, this was because meeting them was logistically inconvenient. Partially, it was because deep down, I believed that group of people harbored some dark secrets, and I didn’t want to learn them. Turns out I was right. I never told Jilly this- I still haven’t- because the subject only ever came up once. I guess we both wanted to keep that separation.

I don’t know what happened next. Jilly said something, but I didn’t hear it. Or maybe I did, but I just don’t remember. What I do remember is fear. My breathing accelerated. My heart pounded. I was really cold and really hot at the same time- sweating, but I wrapped myself in blankets anyway. I tried to speak, but I couldn’t. Jilly kept telling me to say something, say anything. I tried, but nothing came out.

It wasn’t until a week later, after some reflection and a lot of googling, that I realized that was a panic attack. Something I’ve witnessed several times, but never experienced as an adult.

I don’t know how long I sat there. It could have been only a minute or two, or it could have been an hour. Jilly probably knows, but I’m disinclined to ask. I’m getting a little shaken just documenting all this and would prefer not to think about it anymore.

When I finally regained control of myself, what followed was a long discussion of what constitutes safe recreational drug use. Again, it seemed irrelevant to me, but I was vulnerable and confused so I went along with it.

I’ve never discussed this here, and honestly I was hoping I would never have to, but I don’t think there is such a thing as “safe recreational drug use”. I mean, shit- as I briefly touched on earlier this month, the ranitidine pills I take every day are having their safety called into question, and they’ve been under constant scientific scrutiny for decades! How do you expect me to accept the safety of substances that are banned from FDA testing when “safe” drugs aren’t even safe?

Jilly has always taken issue with that stance. They found it “judgey”. I never cared. I still don’t. My position has remained unaltered since I was a teenager, and I made it clear to Jilly on our first date that it would never change under any circumstances.

We argued into the wee hours of the night. We resolved nothing- mainly because we were arguing about drug use and not sexual assault, which was the actual source of distress. I had work the next day, and so did they. Jilly asked me if I wanted some time alone to process all this. I said, “no.”

I didn’t want space. I didn’t want time. I wanted resolution.

But Jilly did want time. So they went home. I remember the last thing I said before they left, worried about an audition the next day. I said, “Don’t worry, you’ll do great. I have faith in you.”

I’m not sure why I said that. I suppose it must have been true. I was so shaken- dazed from the combination of the confession, the panic attack, and the brutal argument that followed, that I wasn’t thinking clearly. Some part of me still trusted Jilly. I was, for some reason, convinced that this was a discussion our relationship could survive.

Jilly was working on Siren Songs at the time- that kept them pretty busy. Additionally, they had a full-time job, and I think another theatre gig, maybe two, on the side. They were very busy, and made that clear at the beginning of the summer. Still, in spite of all that, Jilly always had time to see me.

Until suddenly they didn’t.

From that day on, I would hear from them periodically: Photos from the Siren Songs set, a “how are you” text here and there. But nothing substantive. I didn’t know it yet, but it would be more than six weeks before I would see Jilly again. Six weeks of skipping meals, sometimes for days at a time. Six weeks of staring at my ceiling, wondering when I would be able to resolve this anxiety. Six weeks of questions that would go unanswered.

Perhaps I share some blame in that. I never demanded a meeting. I chose to wait for Jilly to approach me. That was a mistake.

In that time, I could think of nothing else. I stopped writing stories. I started making basic, foolish mistakes at the library. Everyone around me knew something was wrong, and I’m happy to say that the love and support of my friends, family, and coworkers kept me afloat during this time.

My need for answers, however, remained unfulfilled. I talked to everyone who would listen (and probably several folks who wouldn’t), but not a single one of them was Jilly- the person whose response I so desperately needed.

Starved for answers from the source, I was forced to a few dark conclusions about my history with Jilly.

• Jilly promised me more than once that their drug use habits were safe. Now, as previously stated, I don’t think such a thing exists, but Jilly did manage to convince me that they weren’t actually a threat to themselves or others. One person I spoke to told me this was a delusion. Maybe it was.
• Jilly often said the word “consent”. So often that I believed I was doing something to make them uncomfortable and they were gently trying to provide course-correction without directly confronting me. No, Jilly became a consent advocate to cover for their past crimes. As far as I’m concerned, stating that without a clear disclaimer is a lie. A lie they repeated more times than I can even count.
• Jilly told me they believed in accountability, and in people facing the consequences of their actions. But in this case, they hid. They sneaked around, hiding from accountability, facing no consequences for their actions. They said to me that this was their biggest secret, which I interpreted to mean “I haven’t told anyone else.”

Those things- safety, accountability, consent, consequences- became the foundation of our relationship. I had faith in Jilly to hold themselves to the same standards they held everyone else, and in a short conversation, Jilly managed to undermine all of them. My trust was completely shattered.

And so, when the time came for us to finally meet again, I entered the conversation prepared to end the relationship.

We met in a public park at night, and I got to work. I told Jilly exactly how I felt about what they had done, and I didn’t mince words. I compared them to other people who had committed similar atrocities, and to my surprise, Jilly sat there and took it. No protest, no defense, nothing. When I commented on this, they chimed in that there was no defense.

They promised me that now I knew everything: every dark secret, every screw-up, all the worst thing they’d ever done.

And that made me believe that our relationship still had hope. It even helped that it turns out some of my assumptions were wrong: For example, Jilly didn’t keep this a secret from everyone. Many of the people in their group of friends did, in fact, know.

We talked a long time that night. After a lot of words and tears, I made a mistake.

I kissed them.

On the forehead, during a quieter moment, I kissed Jilly. Immediately I knew what I had done was reckless and stupid. I backed away immediately and apologized. They told me it was okay. And then I made another mistake.

I invited them home.

We woke up the next morning with a renewed sense of direction- a way to make new progress and rebuild our broken relationship.

Hope.

We kept in touch for a few days, and then I went out to New York Comic Con, where that feeling dissipated. I returned to where I had been before we talked: Barely eating, barely sleeping, anxious all the time.

I didn’t want space. I didn’t want time. I wanted resolution.

But this time, I was physically removed from Jilly. So, I reached out. I showed them my vulnerability. I shared my feelings over text, hoping that would result in a firm date and time. An action plan, something, anything concrete that I could lean on to get me through the next few days.

Jilly replied. “Soon, but I’m not sure when. I need to make sure I understand my intentions going into the conversation first.”

This did not help. In person, I told Jilly why what they did was so horrifying, but I did not explain what dropping that bombshell on me did to me, or our relationship.

So I re-emphasized: I’m not sleeping. I’m not eating. I need resolution.

Jilly replied. “Camomile, melatonin. We aren’t gonna get anything across effectively if we let anxiety make us sick”

I stared at that text message for a long time. Never had I felt so dismissed or insulted. Like my feelings for or about Jilly could be resolved by sipping tea.

I never replied. I turned off my phone, laid my head against the pillow, and within moments I fell into a deep, peaceful sleep.

The anxiety was gone because Jilly handed me the resolution I craved.

It was another ten days before we met again. I wasn’t a huge fan of that, but it wasn’t making me ill anymore.

Our final conversation was long. It went on for hours. Jilly thought we were having a relationship conversation.

“We are not having a relationship conversation,” I explained. “We are not even having an argument.

I would be a hypocrite if I didn’t call myself out for my own shortcomings. At one point, Jilly and I talked over each other. We escalated, and I yelled at them. We were in Center City at the time, surrounded by skyscrapers, and my voice echoed for a long time.

It was so loud, security from a nearby building came to make sure things weren’t completely out of hand. That guard was incredible at deescalation.

But the damage was done. To some, yelling might not seem like a big deal, but it is. It’s an act of abuse, and one that I committed. More specifically, it’s an act I promised Jilly that I would never, ever do. I broke that promise that night, and I have no option but to own that.

I tried to apologize, but Jilly laughed at me. I didn’t protest- abuses large and small are not entitled to understanding or forgiveness, and I understand that. Jilly was not required to forgive me.

And I was not required to forgive them. They dropped a bombshell on me, and then they went home and didn’t see me again for six weeks. They started a fire, and left me to deal with the blaze. I explained that, and the argument continued.

Jilly dropped another bombshell on me- one as upsetting and dark as the sexual assault, but has no victims, so I will not share it here.

“I didn’t know that,” I said.

“Well, now you know everything about me,” they replied.

“You said that last time.”

A long pause.

“You don’t trust me anymore. I don’t trust you anymore. So where do we go from here?” They asked.

“I think the answer is obvious, but neither of us wants to say it.”

And it was true. I didn’t want to break up with Jilly, even though I had made up my mind nearly two weeks before.

“I need you to say it,” they insisted. “Say that you’re breaking it off, and that you need no contact. I need clear communication here.”

I nodded, but words came slowly to me. I don’t remember what I said, but I do remember that it took me a very long time to say it.

And that was the end.

I stayed with Jilly on that bench for a long time. I irrationally wanted to comfort them. My love never diminished- it still hasn’t. Even now, I want to guide them through the grieving process.

But I couldn’t then, and I can’t now.

We walked together back to the library- where their car and my bike were both parked. We shared a long, extended hug.

“Be well,” they said to me.

“Be well,” I replied.

I have not seen Jilly again since then. Perhaps I never will. Perhaps there’s a future where we meet again, or, more likely, they’ll see this story and never speak to me again. Which brings me to my ultimate point:

Why is Matt sharing all this?

I do not believe acts of abuse are entitled to secrecy or privacy- and since this post is already way too long, I didn’t even list all of them. Had this been a difference of character, or an argument, I would have had no problem simply deleting Jilly’s image from this site with a simple post stating that we were no longer together and that was that.

Jilly lied to me. Jilly tricked and misled me for nearly a year and a half, and when I called them out for it, they vanished. That’s why I broke it off. When I made grievous mistakes in our relationship, I owned up to those mistakes immediately, but Jilly ran away when I needed them most.

It’s been two weeks since the break-up, and I’m finally feeling okay enough to talk openly about it. I grieved our relationship during our time apart, and when it finally ended, the healing process could begin.

I am fortunate. I could have been hurt much worse than this- had Jilly kept their secrets, we might have stayed together for years before they finally came bubbling up to the surface. As it is, I am wounded, but I will recover.

Jilly’s art and Jilly’s image are embedded into the fabric of my platform here. I’m currently reaching out, looking for new art to replace it. And while I may remove Jilly’s photos and Jilly’s art, I think it would be prudent to keep the stories. While our relationship was built on a foundation of lies, we managed to have a few moments of deep and genuine love and fun, and deleting them seems like a shame.

More regular content coming soon. I am on the mend now, and that means the jokes are coming back. Thanks for reading.

I love you all.