It’s almost 9pm on a Saturday night. I’m drinking vodka and lemonade out of a stolen Starbuck’s mug, it tastes a bit too sickly, but that may also just be my slow realisation of how sickeningly boring I am. Although, I’d rather be sat in my warm house making my own drinks than out somewhere drinking flat Coke that some guy, who’s far more generous in his hair gel application than in his vodka measures, has poured out.
I feel like sharing, and - as with drinking - I never quite recognise my thought patterns thoroughly enough to stop before I start. I’m in a pretty good mood, an honest mood. By writing some things down so they’re reality based rather than stuck in my head I’m hoping a couple of my doubts will be dispelled. I’ve been thinking about three things a lot recently:
- How I’m jealous of people named Will because when they’re asked if they’ll do something they can reply “my name is Will ______, not Won’t ______” and I just think that’d be really fun.
- How there should be a skit written about the overwhelming idea that feminism is a hive mind. People would have to wear a tinfoil hat with a dick drawn on it to avoid having their minds infiltrated by the stereotypical RadFem mentality (read: the presumed mentality of every single woman who says they are a feminist on the internet).
- How mind-blowingly improbable it is that somehow my life seems to be coming together, which I would never have thought possible if you’d told me six months ago.
The latter is my cause for rambling tonight. That, and obviously the vodka… and the overwhelming, crushing guilt I feel all day, every day. I had a dream last night that I was in a hotel room with Ben, my ex who I’ve just started seeing again, only there was another girl there. I recognised her as his other girlfriend but I can’t remember her face. She kept doing things that annoyed Ben, I can’t recall what they were but afterwards he would blame me for her actions and towards the end of the dream he was beating me due to her mistakes. Not the sanest of dreams, but then I also often dream about befriending giant spiders whilst on holiday in a space craft. The latter dream is pretty difficult to deconstruct, however last nights dream has a pretty obvious message: I feel guilty and separated from my actions that hurt Ben previously. He often brings it up and tells me how hurt he is - quite rightly - and it makes me feel cripplingly guilty. It’s also quite appropriate in that my actions also involved me being the other woman, well done self-conscious; you dick. I guess I should briefly explain what happened. I like this list writing malarky so I’m going to put the events in such a format:
- It’s the end of May. Everything is brighter than it usually is, I believe I am the best thing ever. I get weird and go into university to re-paint walls a lot.
- I’ve been with Ben for three years. I’m not saying our relationship is perfect or anything but I’ve loved him for a long time, until now. Now I wouldn’t care if someone sucker-punched my grandmother.
- I somehow end up seeing a guy almost a decade older than me who has a girlfriend he’s practically married to.
- I mean, they have a cat.
- My life becomes a twisted version of a Richard Curtis movie.
- My boyfriend finds out - mostly because I can’t be arsed to be subtle about it - and we break up.
- I force myself to cry in a pub car park so it looks like I have normal emotions whilst my best friend of seven years calls me a slut.
- Said friend removes me from his life. I don’t notice for a fortnight.
- Whatever.
- My favourite people in the world: Rosy, Alex, April and Jonny try to talk me down. I don’t listen for a good three weeks.
- Everything I’ve done hits me slowly over a couple of days and then all at once on a Wednesday night sometime in July.
- I only really get out of bed to go be the other woman to this guy; I’ve fucked everything up, why not make it worse?
- Logic game is strong.
- This ends at some point, not sure when.
- I go to visit Jonny in Durham, it’s lovely and refreshing and I believe I’m ready to go home and get on with my life.
- I get home and am able to fully realise the reality of what an asshole I’ve been, which instead of making me feel better actually makes me go a teensy bit mental.
- I get re-committed*.
- Before the meds can fully kick in I have another episode in which I’m convinced I’m not in reality anymore.
- I call Ben who comes to meet me in the early hours of the morning.
- We casually see each other every fortnight or so, make of that what you will.
- I go on holiday over Christmas and finally feel something close to real feelings and even happiness.
- I feel like a normal, stable person again most of the time.
- I get my career and personal life back on track.
- I have a bad day some time after I get back, they’re much less frequent now so this scares me.
- Ben gets a taxi to me in the early hours of the morning.
- He tells me he still loves me.
- I genuinely cry for the first time in what feels like an eternity (but don’t tell anyone because I’ll deny it).
*I don’t remember a lot about Autumn last year. I remember sitting outside smoking, looking up at the stars and feeling completely detached from the world a lot. I remember my mum being angry with the way I was. I remember being put on Citalopram, I remember the mental health assessment woman laughing to me about whether I had “Safe Foods”. I didn’t know what they were so she explained how she’d spoken to a bulimic girl who only ate red so that if her vomit was red she’d know whether she’d binged or not. Something like that, I was more interested in why this woman found that so funny. I’d seen this woman before, the second time I’d been referred and she’d accused me of going there to get meds, when it’s clear all over my risk and relapse plans that I’ve refused medication since I was 17. I should probably complain about her to some sort of department in the mental health system but I think they’ll all be busy out looking for some fucks to give about their patients.
Anyway, what I’m trying to say - in a relevantly vague and vaguely irrelevant way - is that the latter half of last year was balls. At the time, I often thought there was nothing worse than what I was experiencing and knowing that I deserved every single second of it. I wouldn’t wish it upon anyone, but I am glad on some levels that I suffered because, as I said, I deserved it. More so, I know there is something worse than what I experienced; what Ben experienced.
I love Ben, I really do. Which I fully realise is seemingly ridiculous on about 5,000 levels, although the fact he still loves me is even more confusing. I mean, look how selfish,cruel, impulsive, self-absorbed, unstable and self-pitying I can be? Ben, on the other hand, is the kind of person who would set himself on fire to keep another person warm.
Still, I don’t understand how he can forgive me. I’m just grateful that he’s trying.
And this really only explores my feelings on Ben and I in the situation - and not all that well. I mean, think of all the collateral damage. I may have portrayed the idea that I think I’m a victim in this but I seriously don’t, I’ve never even met the woman who I feel deserves to stab me.
Urgh. I thought writing it out would give me some perspective, maybe it’s no more complicated than it appears. Maybe I’m looking for some validation of the situation, or absolution for my guilt - which I’ll probably never have and don’t deserve. I often find that by sharing my opinions, thoughts and issues on here can make them less potent, even when no one reads through them.
