Now Playing: I Dreamed a Dream from Les Miserables (he slept a summer by my side, he filled my days with endless wonder, he took my childhood in his stride but he was gone when autumn came)
I find it really weird to be at the end of a relationship and not fully own the story; it's the story of us, not just the story of me and Some Guy. My ex, like me and everyone else, contains multitudes; and I'm not going to share those multitudes with just anyone. It's strange to be hurting, so badly, but still not feel free to discuss as openly as I am accustomed to.
Here's the thing - I'm a bit of a love slut. Lovebug, is how everyone politely puts it, but I love very freely. People often think bad of me, or think that I'm too stupid to see flaws in people, or that I naively think everyone deserives to be loved from the start. But it really...it really isn't like that. I am so profoundly aware of my ex's many, many flaws; I saw them from the start. I'm sure he saw mine. But I loved in spite of it, and I'm trying, really hard, to cling to that reckless delusional optimism. It's the only thing that keeps me sane and keeps me human, especially as I become increasingly bitter about an ever growing number of things and people.
There's a difference between loving and being in love, I think. I don't think I've ever been 'in love', and I certainly don't think I was in love with some boy I knew for six weeks. But I loved, I loved imperfectly and wildly and erratically; and there were some things said that gave me the impression that we were on the same page, in this strange relationship-that-was-not-a-relationship, with this boy-who-is-not-my-boyfriend (I gotta stop doing this whole 'WE CAN'T USE LABELS' bullshit. I'm a writer. I need words). And love is not all fun and games, you know; I've always known it can take you to dark places that you have to endure for other peoples' sake. But since moving here I have been stalked, gotten lost, poisoned myself with mouldy food, and plunged into deep despair - and my friends have been there for me, always. It is hard to accept that someone who claimed to care about me has utterly left me for dead.
I keep finding myself verging on hate; it would be so easy to hate the person who cheated on me, who has broken all his promises, who is not here for me when I desperately need him - and I'm sure nobody would begrudge me this one thing to utterly despise. But it would be grossly unfair, I think - not only to the complexities and subtleties that makes this story much more complicated than I can freely discuss, but also unfair to me. I must try to be happy, despite the circumstances. I did nothing wrong.
We live in a culture where people, especially young people, and especially young girls, are taught to blame themselves entirely for any calamity that befalls them. It is hard not to think that maybe I should not have been so free with my affections, maybe I should have braced myself for this fall. But it would be a tragically cynical thing to do, you know, to anticipate disaster before the pleasure has even begun. I made mistakes, and I wasn't perfect; but I refuse to believe that I did anything wrong, in loving recklessly - I am not in the wrong, here.
I will love again. I will love as recklessly as the last. And if I hurt, so be it. It will not be my fault. And it's not as if I owe it to anyone to love as freely as I do; I owe it to myself. Because I truly believe that the world is a better place when we love recklessly, even if it has made my world slightly worse, for now. There are many, many things I regret; love will never be one of them. I loved as honestly and as simply as I could, even when it was hard, even when it hurt. And I hope one day I will find someone who can return the favour.