An acidic introduction to hate-love
Vodka-soaked and bleeding
Foreword: I’ve been gestating this story for a long time. Because the events of it transfigured me. And that’s why I’m so sure it is worth telling, even if objectively it may not be ‘all that’. Now, YOU can be the judge of that.
I fell out of my first relationship, rolled down several (metaphorical, mostly) flights of stairs and ended up straight in another. At the very least I should be glad I learnt all that I have as early as I have. Although it doesn’t seem to have done me much good — but that’s for another time.
This relationship was critically toxic, but in that particular way that seems — at the time — to be perfect. You know what I mean. That kind where red flags get trampled over with reckless abandon as lust and love wrench you together.
Speaking of red flags, this was my first: The person I fell for was, it turned out, still with someone else when we got together. Much as I loathe to admit it, so was I. More than that — to my eternal shame that relationship was ended via text message. You could almost say part of what followed was my karma for pulling a dick move like that. It couldn’t all be down to that, though.
What followed was a short interlude of bliss which — since it wasn’t at all painful — is entirely irrelevant. The only thing that may be tangentially of note is that I produced the only artwork I’ve ever had pride in during that time. Of course, I no longer have it.
Shortly after my birthday, I get a very vague text — something along the lines of the classic ‘We need to talk’. And then get blanked until the next day, wherein I am a wreck. Naturally.
So is she — she has this whole spiel about how she really needs to focus on work and whatever. Is also really broken up.
I try to drown my sorrows in vodka and worse. The worse being my experimentation with self harm. Something I’m now clean of, fortunately. But that is beside the point.
A few weeks later, nothing much has changed. Besides a few interludes of…confusing signals. Shortly, she confesses to me that she still has feelings for me, and me trying to move on has hurt her.
…
I mean, what else was I supposed to do?
In both senses, that is. What else was I supposed to do than try to move on…
…
And what else was I supposed to do than welcome her back with open arms and bared heart.
This time it lasted barely a week.
What she said that time is different, however.
She told me that she’s polyamorous. Right, fine. More than fine…but would have been nice to know beforehand. Except what she actually said is “I’m polyamorous except when I find someone who makes me monogamous”
I’m sorry, WHAT?!
Now I’m no expert but I’m pretty sure that’s not how polyamory works. (Feel free to learn me otherwise)
But besides that what she told me in less words was…
You are not good enough for me.
Those words eat at me to this very day, no matter how much I try to drive them away. Slashed that heart I held out right in two. With her I felt like I was flying. She turned my whole world upside down.
Then gravity (reality) kicked me in the face. And I fell off my topsy turvy world. Falling not flying, as it turned out. Which is a shame, because the wings I thought I had were really quite lovely.
The worst part of all that, though? I’ll never know. I’ll never know if that summer of absolute bliss that we shared was real to her. Or just an illusion I cradled. Did she manipulate me every step of the way, taking twisted joy in how easily I fell for all her snares? How willingly I tore myself down to try to build her up? Or was she just as blind as I was? I will never know. Even if I ask I can’t trust the answer. Because — intentionally or otherwise — she ground up my trust in a heartbeat.
A (large) part of me keeps telling me that I’m being overly dramatic. Magnifying trivial problems. But the scars I carry scream otherwise. If nothing else, these are certainly my fucking feelings.
I bear scars, but I also cherish lessons. Most notably, and most obviously…
DON’T ignore the damn red flags. No exceptions.
