…and here is why:
One of the worst people I’ve ever had the misfortune of knowing has found this blog.
Someone I haven’t forgiven for having been in my life, once upon a time.
He found my favourite place of expression.
I kinda knew this was always going to happen, but it still suuuuuuuuucks.
I know, I’m being vague. I better get to the point.
I apologise in advance if not everything in this post makes sense; I get panicky just thinking about what I’m about to try to describe. But I really want to describe it, or at least try, to someone other than a mental health professional.
Here we go, then.
2012 was a year of bad decisions, at least for me. I did a lot of stupid things, a lot of which still make me cringe out loud. In retrospect, I realise I was extremely mentally ill and didn’t want to admit it, but that’s hindsight for you, huh?
The worst decision by far: moving in with someone I thought I loved after just a couple of months of knowing him.
At first, everything seemed OK, if a little rushed. The rationale we used was something like, “we already spend so much time together, so what’s the point of paying rent for two separate places?”
Sure, I don’t beat myself up for that anymore, but it still sometimes annoys me that I failed to notice that it wasn’t normal to spend so much time with someone I barely knew before we left some random gig together.
I look back on it as kind of a “stray cat” mentality: here I was, late for a lecture (in a course I eventually failed, miserably, I might add), hungover as shit, looking for my phone so I could hurry up and leave this person’s house. True to form, I made too much noise and woke him. He then proceeded to make food for me, so I rationalised that this was a good enough reason not to go to class (yep, failed like FUCK), and BAM. That was me, all of a sudden, in a relationship. This person cares enough to feed me! Woah! Yay, affection! Forgot what this was like! Blah blah. I was the stray cat. I’ve been fed, and now I simply refuse to fuck off. Not that I was told to fuck off or anything, but there you go. That’s some messed-up shit, I know.
I was a very lonely and miserable person, hence the terrible attitude towards alcohol and interpersonal relationships, not to mention a great many other things… but, mainly those two things.
And this played into his hands rather perfectly.
He saw me as an extension of himself, or a new accessory to flaunt. He quickly went about telling people he had this “hilarious girlfriend that does all this hilarious shit, and she’s kinda hot, and, like, reads books & shit, like, holy shit. She’s mine, all mine lol hehe lol”.
Anyway, during the time we were in a relationship but still not officially living together, we hardly spent any time away from each other. I was doggedly infatuated. As I drunkenly (I spent a lot of 2012 drunk as hell… read: “year of bad decisions”) told him about my childhood, my family, my hopes and dreams, and things of that nature, he sat and listened. I couldn’t believe I found someone to listen to me; I was so used to pretending that I was a lot more uncomplicated than I am (because complicated females are just the WORST, AMIRITE?!). I felt relieved that I could get just that little bit closer to being myself, or who I wanted so desperately to be at the time.
So, I couldn’t stop telling him about myself. I had an intense fear of being misunderstood. I wanted so badly for him to know me and what I was all about. He told me he loved that I could be so open with him. I opened up more and more each day, grateful for the freedom to do so.
Except I knew there was something not-quite-right. He never really told me that much about himself, at least not at first. When I asked about his childhood, he said that it was “glorious” and that he loved his family more than he could say. Predictably, that led me to ask exactly how glorious it all was, and he’d dodge any real descriptions of anything. He’d tell me that the conversation was about me, not him. I would generally end up trying to change the subject, sensing his unease. I’d instantly feel guilty for asking about his life. That hurt me, because I’m a naturally curious person. Of course, I ignored that red flag. I was too busy going on about myself and reveling in the attention he was giving me. Attention I was so eager to prove I deserved.
That’s what it was like in the beginning.
After living together for most of a year, I came out of the relationship
– alienated from almost everyone who cared about me
– having suffered a miscarriage, found to have been caused by cervical cancer
– having lost my pets
…and I was fucking angry.
Angry at him, angry at the world, and most of all, pretty god-damned angry at myself. So angry I couldn’t comprehend ever being at peace again, in any way, shape or form.
I smashed windows, kicked holes in walls, set fire to a lot of my stuff (seeing as I didn’t even have a home to put it all in), and hysterically screamed until my throat bled.
I became shamelessly addicted to that synthetic-weed shit, which only exacerbated the situation, to put it lightly. I’m not one to get all teachy-preachy-mama-papa about drugs, being an erstwhile scumbag and all, but I will say that from my personal knowledges and experiences, I think that synthetic cannabinoids are to be avoided until they are researched and tested further (on willing, paid and fully aware humans, of course, with all necessary help at their disposal, much like any other drug trial should work).
Out of all of the irresponsible things I have ingested, that is the only one I know beyond a reasonable doubt that I will never touch again unless I have seriously given up on myself.
At that point back then, I honestly didn’t care.
All I wanted was to die.
Fortunately, my parents (and my uncle, who’s pretty awesome once you get past all the religious stuff) stepped in. Initially, I thought I didn’t need their help, but they were patient. I will never be able to describe how grateful I will always be for their patience and love. They were faced with caring for this shell of a human that looked kind of like their daughter, and it distressed them to no end. But, they never gave up. They knew who I used to be (a sophomore version of who I am now), and they desperately missed that. They didn’t judge me; they just wanted me back. They saw my actions as the cry for help that they truly were.
I had been freshly discharged from a mental ward when I finally realised something: maybe I don’t want to die anymore. Maybe I do other things. I can try, fail and still be fine with myself and my abilities. Things I wanted to do before I met my ex. Things that made me happy and excited for the future. Things that made me me.
Gradually, over the space of about five or six months, I found another job (actually, two, because I had a lot of debt to pay off), reconnected with some of my dearest friends, found somewhere to live, and started to deal with the loss of a child I wasn’t ready to have.
…and then he contacted me, spouting forth some mad stuff. He was angry that I got over him and the whole mess my life was at the time, which didn’t really surprise me, but what really annoyed me was that he was claiming responsibility for the fact that I recovered. Honestly, this poor excuse for a human was saying that “everything happens for a reason” (what a sickening platitude), therefore I wouldn’t be doing so well if I had never met him in the first place. He was saying that I was “up to fuck-all” when he met me, and if I was left to my own devices, I would have ended up far worse off somehow.
I deleted his messages without replying, and got a new number. I started using a different surname.
Quite simply, parents and I had worked far too hard on saving my life to put up with any of that.
And as much as I would like to forgive him, he’s obviously not done with being an ignorant person just yet.
Sadly, but understandably (I really am done with beating myself up over any of this), I’m still defensive of myself in some ways, because of all of the above. I’ve come an incredibly long way, but I still think of how this person already knows far too much about me and how he’s found a way to try and keep track of how I am these days. It feels like an invasion of some kind.
That said, I will get over this, because I know I deserve more than to have this vague fear define me and what I write, and I love writing stuff.
I just need some time.
I’ll be back soon. ❤