It’s too late

I have so much to say that I do not know where to start, I don’t have the words to say it all and no one will have the time or the patience to read it, especially not the one person who needs to. I am frantic, scared and completely alone. I can’t tell anyone, not yet at least. I am strong for appearances but the second I am alone I am quivering and unable to keep myself upright.

Just yesterday my ex and I were laughing over bad pub food and a game of American snooker. I had him in my arms. He kissed my cheek several times – and I didn’t kiss him back.

Today, his surgery went wrong and he has slipped in to a coma. 

I should have made more effort yesterday. I should have kissed him back. I should have smiled at him more instead of hiding my true feelings. I should have told him one last time that I love him. I do love him, don’t I? Why else would this hurt so much. I should be there with him now.

I have asked God to save him. I would pray but I don’t know how to. I would ask everyone to pray for him but no one knows. What do I do?

I am so scared. I have tried to have a life without him but I always go back to him – even when I am sober. I can’t lead a life without him in the world at all. I need him more than I am even aware of. 

As we were saying goodnight to each other last night, he mentioned that sleep is “the land of dreams.” I keep asking myself ‘where are you, S’ and I can only picture his words in response.

Please, don.t take him away. 

It’s not love

Somewhere between having my head down the toilet and getting home at 3:00am I managed to unblock my ex on Whatsapp, declare my love for him and then invite him to my house. I don’t remember anything after being thrown out of the club, but apparently told my friend in the taxi home that I wanted to be with him again and the only thing stopping me from being with him is the fear of what other people will think.

When my ex arrived at my house I spent 10-15minutes just crying in his arms. I asked him why he hurt me; told him that I couldn’t find happiness anymore and that I was tired of trying. Then I threw up all over the floor and passed out in my bed. He was still here when I woke up, holding my hand and watching me with concern. We slept together, but when he said ‘I love you’ I had to stop. I couldn’t say it back. Suddenly I was realizing that sex is all it was. There was no sense of intimacy, no familiarity in it, I could close my eyes and picture any others mans face but his.

I’ve spent the day trying to make sense of the events of last night. How did I get drunk so quickly? Why did I contact my ex? Am I so damaged that I can only seek comfort in the source of the pain?

It’s amazing that even, after our history, at 3:00am he came to my side. I like the idea of being with him, but the reality of it isn’t as shiny. The truth is he hurt me beyond repair and I am afraid of him – not of what everyone else will think. Yes, there are aspects of my life where I could be happier but I am not crippled by the pain. I have so much to work through, including figuring out my feelings for him.

What a mess.

Keep your eyes open when your head is up

I’ve spent the past week back at home, hibernating with my thoughts because I managed to give myself laryngitis after my quiet weekend turned in to a very heavy weekend of alcohol and baking soda. I felt pretty alone after my last post, and wondering how the hell anyone would be interested in me when I look the mess that I usually do.

However, I’ve spent the best part of the week thinking about how much interest I have actually had over the past 9 months. From the consistent interest from the guy at the gym who has seen me with no make-up and (literally) dripping in sweat; and the guy that I lived with (who had seen – pun not intended – both ends of the spectrum); to the gorgeous Australian I met and went on several dates with when I had looked my best in the entire past 9 months.

In my last post I wrote about a weak moment where I compared myself to someone else, and I questioned things about myself. This had such a big impact for me to write about it because it is not usually something I do. I am self confident, and I learnt at a young age to love myself. I have imperfections yes, and I will always admire the differences in other women, but I don’t normally question my appearance. I have to learn to ignore these thoughts that will inevitably occur.

More importantly, I have been chased. I have had repeated interest, and I spent my summer falling for a guy who besides the point did mess me around. Yet at the end of all of it, I feel no one will accept me like my ex did…does? I’m not as bad as I occasionally think.

 

 

 

 

 

Writing

Here’s the thing with me writing – I love to do it when I can make time for it, but more often than not I don’t make time for it. Not even when a module on my degree is dedicated to writing reflective journals.

But sometimes I have an overwhelming need to write, such as nights like these: where it is cold; and my room is a mess; and I am borderline sick from eating too much Chinese food. I’m also single with not many friends left after the 4 years I have spent in University; and looking forward to having the quietest weekend to myself that I have had since I started my final year in September. In summary, I am cold (in all senses of the word), and alone (mentally).

I’ve spent the best part of 2 years in a messy break-up, running away from my ex and all the problems we/I had/have. I’ve been on this endless road to nowhere and I have come too far to turn back. I was going to say that I am lost, but no – I am not lost. I am still on a path, I just need to find a new direction and one day, a destination?

Yesterday, on my way to University, I noticed a girl wearing a gorgeous dark green jacket and I remembered I used to have one just like it. For a second I compare our outfits, I wonder how clear it must be that I literally threw on the first things I could see when I woke up: a pair of black textured 3/4 leggings, a pink jumper and a small black jacket. Then I am picturing the figure beneath my clothes. How the last 3 years of drinking, take-away’s, sitting at desks and laying-in have taken me from a size 4 to a size 10. Suddenly I am asking myself “When did you stop giving a shit?”