I have written about this more times than I would have liked to on this blog, telling myself that every time I write, it would be the last. It never is, and I don’t know if it will be the last this time as well. I won’t delve into the details; I don’t think I need to repeat them again, and again. But, the point is, I can’t seem to let go.
Just yesterday, I had openly talked to my ex-boyfriend, now friend and housemate, about this ordeal, for I felt he had the right to know, and if he was to hate me, then should know the whole truth. Funnily enough, he knew all about it. He had had a hunch when it was ongoing – he said it wasn’t difficult to figure out something was happening. Later, he came across the first blog I had written on this topic, An Open Letter To Those Who Broke Me. That confirmed his assumptions and, for a few days – and quite rightly so – I felt a bit of hostility from him. I don’t blame him; I would have done the same if I was his in shoes because finding out must have broken his heart that still yearns for me.
But he didn’t blame me or hate me like I felt he should. I felt I was in a position to be hated on for what had happened whilst he was still in love with me. I hadn’t told him at the time out of respect for his feelings, out of care because he is still a good friend. But he still believes it isn’t something to hate, and that it was understandable considering what had happened over the past few months.
That’s when my walls came crashing.
I had put on a front this whole time, without realising it. I told myself and others, I was fine – that I couldn’t care less, and that I’m better off without this and will be able to brush it off and move on easily. I’m a strong, independent woman who has a gotten a decent hold of her life – that’s what I told myself every day, every waking moment.
My ex-boyfriend was the first friend I made at university, my first best friend at university, my first long term boyfriend. Over the past 3 and a half years, he’s gotten to know me better than anyone, and he is one of the few people I still trust with my life, and that list is short. I think that’s why I broke down in front of him. Because I have never really had to put up a front around him; I could always be myself; express myself the way I wanted to with nothing to hide.
And for the first time since this whole thing blew up, I cried. Properly. I don’t even know how much time had passed; all I knew was that I had been sat there, in his room, with tears streaming down my face so effortlessly. I wanted to stop; I wanted to stop crying over something so unfair but I just couldn’t. I couldn’t stop. For the first time, I could finally see how much it actually hurt – the side of it I was trying so hard not to face. All the memories, the conversations, the arguments, the lies, the supposed truth – it all came flooding back in that one moment and it was unbearable.
Even now, as I’m writing this, I am trying so hard to keep myself composed. Every day, as I wake up, I am reminded by the little brown figurine sat on my table. As I stand in front of my mirror, getting ready for the day – yet another reminder. Everywhere I go, no matter how hard I try to not think about it all, something triggers all the happy memories, of which there were many and all of which I treasured. But that is soon followed by all the pain. It just becomes too much. Still, I can’t remove these triggers either, I don’t have the heart to.
I hope this passes. They say time is the best healer, so I just hope it is good to me.