09 Sep ‘And Just Like That…’ I Choose Me

Joseph De La Cruz. (Photo by Monica Mendoza)

Commentary, Joseph De La Cruz

After four seasons of hate-watching, eye rolls and “WTF” texts with my best friend, “And Just Like That…” — the sequel to my favorite show of all time, “Sex and the City” — had come to an end.

“AJLT” committed so many narrative crimes — trying too hard to appeal to Gen Z, the universally reviled character of Ché Diaz, the death of Mr. Big in the first episode, the unforgivable absence of Kim Cattrall’s Samantha — that fans were left asking ourselves why we kept tuning in.

Still, after four years of grief, a placeholder romance with Aidan (we knew it wouldn’t last), and soul-searching, the show delivered an ending that, surprisingly, felt satisfying: Carrie ended up single.

And I felt that. As a queer Latino who’s always identified as a Carrie, the ending hit differently. Lately, I’ve been trying to see my own world through a new lens.

This summer, one of my goals was to try and work on myself: returning to the gym, picking up running again, and most important, starting therapy to work on my mental health. After writing about grieving my mom and talking with a friend on his own healing journey, I felt it was time.

But something happened that caused a depressive episode the likes of which I hadn’t felt in years — all started by a breakup.

I had been talking to someone I had met online. It started off very intense. It was like we started at a hundred and just kept building. Our online conversations moved to texting and video-calling. This guy, (let’s call him Luke) was in Germany and I was in California, a nine-hour time difference. We texted and called as many times as we could. There were video calls that only ended as he was falling asleep, stopping mid-sentence to snore. While I knew long-distance was against us, I had gotten to a point where I was thinking, Maybe, just maybe, we could try and see if this goes anywhere. I was starting to see a possible future. Something that I hadn’t allowed myself in what seemed like forever. However, just as I was having those thoughts, Luke ghosted me.

That brought me back to feelings I only felt when I was with my ex “J.”

I’m a survivor of an emotionally abusive relationship.

That has taken me a while to be able to say. In emotionally abusive relationships, the perpetrator has control, power, over the victim that no one will understand until they find themselves in that situation. And that is the power that J had over me.

One of the ways he controlled me was by ghosting. Whenever we would have an argument or I did something wrong in his eyes, he would ghost. He would block me on his phone. We were living together, so while I was at school, he would go stay with his friends.

This would lead to me blowing up his phone, not being able to go about my day because he was just gone. The person who claimed to love me would just disappear. I would spiral and think Why can’t I do anything right? Even in the moments I knew I hadn’t done anything, I believed it was all my fault. No matter what, I was the problem. The longest he disappeared was a week. After, we would go back to a honeymoon phase — only to repeat the toxic cycle.

When Luke disappeared, it brought that all back and tenfold. I spiraled. I spent July 4 in bed, crying. I felt like Carrie when Mr. Big left her at the altar — broken, worthless, crushed. I had met someone who had made me feel things I hadn’t felt in a long time. And I ruined it. No, we hadn’t had a discussion defining what we were doing yet, but it felt so good. I was sure he felt the same way.

After five days (after I had called and texted more than 50 times), Luke finally responded. He had gotten a girlfriend and felt like he was cheating by talking to me. It ended right there. Two days later, I had my first intake with my therapist; I was diagnosed with depression.

And I felt it. I would cry unexpectedly. It hurt to wake up. I didn’t want to open my eyes. I didn’t want to die. I just wanted it to be over. The pain. The feelings of being unworthy. The feeling of being in a room screaming and no one could hear me.

I went into therapy with an open mind and completely willing to put in the work.

Why do I let myself be in situations or relationships with men who disrespect me? Because I don’t see my self-worth. How can I expect someone to love me if I can’t love myself? It brought me back to a quote I had read in one of my favorite books, “The Perks of Being a Wallflower”: “We accept the love we think we deserve.” If this was how I was letting men treat me, what does that say about myself?

What does that say about my self-worth? That is something I’m still working on, but I have found myself giving up my need to control. That is, giving up the control I want over other people. The need I have to fix a guy because I know he can be better. I can’t change or control other people. I can only control me.

I’m controlling me by letting myself keep my peace. By doing the things that I want to do. By having a good time with my brothers at the movies. By going to the bookstore with a latte in hand. By spending time with my best friend, who is my rock through everything.

My best friend isn’t just the friend to tell me how great I am (which she does) but also to give me the tough love I need.

Recently, she spent two weeks visiting the Bay, and it was the time I needed to pick myself up from my funk. When we talked, yeah, she felt sorry for me. She heard me out. But she also gave me the wake-up call I needed.

“What would you have done, honestly,” she asked, “if you two had ended up in a relationship? Would it have been an open relationship because you two are so far away?”

“I don’t know,” I answered. “I feel like that would’ve been something to discuss. It’s not entirely realistic to be monogamous in this case.”

She looked at me. “I kinda wanna slap you right now.” When I asked why, she said, “That’s not you! You want a man who wants you and only you. You don’t do open relationships. You are changing your morals to make someone else happy. What about what makes you happy?”

I let her words sit with me for a few seconds before she continued. “Don’t ever change your morals and sacrifice your happiness for others. Life is about you and your happiness. Men and relationships, they are just an accessory. Life is about you.”

My life is about me. This is something I’m finally starting to understand. After so long trying to make others happy at the detriment of myself, I am done. I am only trying to make myself happy now. I want to do the things that make me happy. Surround myself with people that make me happy.

But I also know that I’m only human. I know working on my mental health is an ongoing process. I am going to mess up. I am going to miss Luke. There will be days when I can’t see my self-worth and just feel alone. But for the first time in years, I am starting to make progress. I have the tools I need to not let those days define me. I’m putting in the work.

In the final moments of “And Just Like That…,” Carrie writes an epilogue — one that is forced on her by her publishers because the main character of her first fiction work just can’t end up alone : “The woman realized she was not alone — she was on her own.”

I’m not alone. I have family. I have friends. But I am, finally, on my own. And that’s not a sad ending. That’s the beginning of the love story I’ve always deserved.

To borrow from my favorite fictional writer: And just like that… I choose me.