I’m Slipping, I’m Falling

“No f—ing way,” said my cousin.

She was giving a tour of her home and turned to see me barreling down the stairs toward her. The same stairs she cautioned me about moments prior.

Her warning included a list of people who had fallen previously and was accompanied by a trick to staying on your feet. I watched as she, my sister, and my nephew descended the stairs sideways, bodies facing the banister.

I, however, did not follow instructions. Then suddenly, I was slipping, falling…

Hearing me coming, the group scrambled to get down the stairs and out of my way. They stared in bewilderment as I tumbled along helplessly.

When I safely reached the bottom, I burst into laughter. Obviously, everyone joined in. Yet one thing was not so obvious: how on earth did I became the stairs’ latest victim?

The answer is somehow simple and complex, both senseless and understandable. So unsurprisingly, during a recent recounting of the fateful fall, I realized that it is eerily similar to some missteps I—and maybe you—have made in love.

Couldn’t Be Me

When I fell on my cousin’s stairs, it wasn’t because I didn’t believe people had fallen before me. I also didn’t doubt walking sideways was an effective prevention method. I just didn’t think it was necessary, for me, in that moment.

Presumptuous, I know. But hear me out. When my cousin mentioned hosting previous girlfriend gatherings in her loft, I imagined women, moving quickly, hands full of cups and plates, falling to the floor below. My hands were free and my gait slow.

Describing the steps as unusually short, my cousin suggested some people’s feet were too long for them. I checked mine, and they fit.

Since I mitigated the perceived risks—feet not hanging over the edge, hand gripping the banister, feet moving slowly—I figured it couldn’t be me.

Foolishly, I have made similar assumptions while dating. 

Take, for instance, the man I dated who took a part-time job for extra cash. After a few weeks working the graveyard shift plus his 9 to 5, the schedule began to wear on him. Every day before heading into the second job, he would contemplate quitting.

When he finally threw in the towel, he told me but not the job. For days, he avoided the manager’s texts and calls rather than simply say he wasn’t coming back. As he hemmed and hawed about responding, a voice in my head said, “he’ll do the same thing to you.”

Of course he did. I told myself it couldn’t be me. I would wait to let my guard down. Surely he respected me more than a random coworker. But when his life got hard, it was me, feeling his absence and stunned by his silence.

I don’t know if it’s arrogance, curiosity, or wishful thinking that makes us believe we can circumvent the disasters that have befallen those who walked similar paths before us. Probably all of the above. For me, it’s also a reluctance to rewrite the rules of life as I have known them. I couldn’t understand stairs that trip you up even when you approach them with caution. I couldn’t fathom someone planning a future one week and cutting all contact the next. No f—ing way.

Misplaced Trust

According to my nephew, when I fell at our cousin’s house, I held onto the banister the whole way down. I hoped the banister might break my fall or at least slow it down. No such luck. By the time my butt reached the bottom, my arm was still stretched behind me, hand desperately clinging to the railing.

As I considered why I held onto that handrail for dear life, I realized that in all my memories of myself or other people falling down stairs, the person had not been holding onto the banister. When my stockinged feet slipped on the stairs at my old condo, I was young, dumb, and running with my hands at my sides. When I saw older relatives fall down stairs carrying luggage and loads, their hands had been too full to grab the banister.

I associated the handrail with safety, and I clung to that false sense of security until the bitter end. But even a child could see it would not save me.

We accumulate countless beliefs and ideals in this life. Some we grab hold of and refuse to let go, so certain they’ll be our salvation. If you asked me whether I believed in trying to change a man, I would say no. Yet if I consider moments and conversations over the years, I think a piece of me has expected to be the inspiration for a man’s decision to be better. Maybe I thought being such an inspiration would be proof of his love because when you hear enough people say a man changes for the ‘right’ woman, you start to believe it. And if you believe long enough, you will cling to that mindset. After all, if it were untrue, that would mean something was wrong with the world—or worse, something was wrong with you.  

A Fading Memory

Mental gymnastics land you in places that are comical, uncomfortable, hurtful, and almost always shameful. But there’s one thing my nephew’s insistence on rehashing my embarrassing fall has taught me: your biggest slips and tumbles can become distant memories. In the handful of times he has teased me, it’s taken me several moments to even realize he’s talking about the fall. Eight months post-tumble, it almost never crosses my mind.

Understandably, slips and falls in love are more persistent memories. But they fade, nonetheless. The sharp pain of heartbreak settles into a dull ache. You release the shame and embrace the lesson. And slowly, carefully, you get back up.