I Fell In Love And Moved In With My Boyfriend After Three Months. Then I Realized I’d Made A Huge Mistake.

I lay in the driveway of my new one-bedroom apartment near the beach, watching my boyfriend of three months and my dad carry furniture up the stairs into the sundrenched space with an ocean breeze. My back spasmed. My boyfriend’s face was sheet-white, and we were both exhausted from the 4:00 a.m. wake-up call when he broke out in hives. At the hospital, a nurse called me his “wife.” I basked in her incorrect assessment. A 29-year-old should be a wife, right?

That day, we moved in together despite his allergic reaction and my tense muscles. If I could rewind the clock, I’d return to that June afternoon to reload the truck and drive toward a different future. Living with a partner before marriage is my biggest regret.

When I succumbed to my boyfriend’s persistent requests for a date after six months of casual friendship, we split our time between his mildew-ridden, kitchen-less studio and my dreary two-bedroom condo, where my clingy roommate once ran her pointy fingernails through my hair unbidden while I watched TV. I said nothing.

I was a people-pleaser; “Yes” was my default answer. My maternal grandmother mouthed apologies as she scurried through crosswalks, contrite for forcing motorists to wait, despite her right-of-way. Nature used her as a mold to shape me, so even when my intuition nagged, He’s not it, despite our commonalities — enjoying the same music, films, books, and worldviews — I didn’t listen. I envisioned a timeline of arbitrary societal markers and was determined to stick to them because the timing was right, even if the guy wasn’t: Lock down the mate, the dog, the marriage, babies, and a fulfilling career.

I had no moral qualms about moving in with a boyfriend with whom I was barely committed. I was raised at the beach on Sundays instead of church, and it made sense on paper to share bills. Plus, if my new living situation didn’t work out, my parents said, “You can always move.” It seemed simple, but for someone whose greatest fault in her relationships was poor communication, it wasn’t. Early on, he professed his love first, which made me giddy. Around the same time, as a veteran educator, he taught me grading tricks to ease my workload as I ended my short career as a high school English teacher. His intelligence and confidence impressed me.

But in our new apartment, when my boyfriend slammed an outraged fist against our shared wall one night to silence the noisy neighbors, I stayed. When our sexual incompatibility became apparent during what should have been the honeymoon phase, I stayed. When he laughed and I cried as I pinpointed the “night we fell in love” as the one with the party bus to The Roxy, I stayed. I stayed because the skin around his sparkly eyes crinkled when he told witty stories with a magnetic grin during the sweet spot between his second and third drinks — before the extra ones that made him disappear behind clouded pupils. I stayed because a boyfriend I loved more had stomped on my heart after college. I was more comfortable in a less passionate pact that wouldn’t hurt as much if it ended.

And it didn’t for a while. We lived in a world of “shoulds” — mine internally motivated, his prompted by a traditional family where what makes a worthy adult was unspoken and nonnegotiable. We discussed our future like a business arrangement. During one quick walk we settled on the now elusive names of our two imaginary children. When our landlord refused to eradicate mold from our walls, we moved up the hill for a few months to alleviate my asthma, until my boyfriend announced he’d put an offer on a two-story condo in a dry, hot canyon without consulting me — a mortgage I couldn’t afford, even with his offer to pay more.

Despite my anger at not being consulted about his impulsive decisions, he pushed me out of my comfort zone. I would find higher paying employment to keep playing house with a man who was increasingly emotionally absent. On the surface, it worked for a while because, in spite of our flaws, we got along. I found that new job, and we found that puppy who needed more room than our new matchbox-size backyard could offer. I was leary until she squirmed up my chest to lick my face. Then I couldn’t say no.

With my boyfriend’s home ownership and his best furry friend secured, the next logical step was a proposal, but when it happened, I was still surprised. He got down on a knee in jeans and a hoodie near the pier and gave a brief, practical speech. My response to “will you marry me?” was “of course.” The too-tight ring suggested a man had chosen me.

Once the initial fervor wore off, however, skepticism bubbled up again, but my fiancé’s married sister and sister-in-law said, “Don’t have a long engagement,” and “don’t drag out the planning.” Two days before the wedding six months later, standing in the parking lot outside my office, I sobbed on the phone with my soon-to-be husband. “I never wanted any of this,” I said about the stressful DIY wedding plans, but I knew what I really meant. I moved forward regardless, rationalizing, We’ll figure it out after the wedding. But a flimsy bond that felt off from the start wasn’t fixable.

A few months later, my husband asked, “When are we going to get you knocked up?” My shoulders and stomach constricted. The body always knows the truth, even when the brain refuses to play along.

“I don’t know,” I said, but I thought, Never. I plodded along quietly through the holidays full of guilt and despair until I mustered the strength in late January to blurt, “We made a mistake.” I left with a backpack full of clothes, ashamed about what I considered a colossal personal failure.

When I moved across the country within the year to be with someone else who reminded me of the spark that had been missing from my truncated marriage, I rented my own apartment. Everything in the spacious one-bedroom abode was mine. I felt weightless with the freedom of having my own real estate, and I was adamant about the certainty it would take to comingle pots and pans again.

When I recall the pivotal moments that would have changed my life, I return to that driveway where my back twitched. If I’d never cohabitated with my ex, we never would have married. I never would have sought that new job where I met my next boyfriend, moved out of state, and worked for my next employer for 16 years. I wouldn’t have spent my prime baby-making years on men who weren’t my best matches.

I couldn’t have known the seemingly innocuous choice to live with someone I barely knew would snowball toward a future as a single, childless woman, which I never intended. Now I’d only consider living with a trusted, suitable partner once we’d fully committed to each other. I may be past the point of motherhood, but I will never be past the opportunity to put my well-being first.

Chelsey Drysdale is a freelance editor and writer living in San Juan Capistrano, California. Her essays have appeared in The Washington Post, The Coachella Review, Brevity, and others. She edits at Drysdale Editorial.Do you have a personal story you’d like to see published on BuzzFeed? Send us a pitch at essay-pitch@buzzfeed.com.