I'm a British girl who ran off to Hollywood. You'll see why later. The events I'm mentioning are in the past and not a day by day up date. When we get up to speed, I will continue posting on a day to day basis as interesting things arise. It'll all make sense after the second or third post, but I don't want to post it all at once.
It would never work. He’s a
smoker, I’m anti-smoking. He’s worships Jack Daniels and I’m a teetotal-er. He
has a son, I don’t like kids. He’s beautiful, talented and popular, I’m none of
those things. He’s a Hollywood movie star and I’m…well…
I run. I run when things get hard or complicated. I’ve done
it all my life, and whilst it’s not something I’m proud of, it is a survival
tactic.
The one time I didn’t run? I
ended up ten grand in debt and my parents had to bail me out. Not good. Not
good at all.
I’d been single for two years and he was the first guy to
pay me any attention. I was lonely. He seemed like a good guy. Seemed like.
Three years older with his own car, he seemed so mature. I was 20 and had never
learned to drive. He was freedom. I needed out of my parent’s house. We were
together a year before I realised I had absolutely nothing resembling
attraction for him. He actually repulsed me physically. I didn’t want him
touching me. We continued on in some semblance of a partnership. He had been a
virgin so had no idea about relationships and I’d only been with one guy before
him. It was normal to hate your partner right? Right? No? Oh…
So, after nearly 8 years, he starts becoming very
interested in his appearance. He was hitting 30 so I assumed it was an early
midlife crisis, but he was always talking about a particular woman at work
called Kirsty. It was suspect. I asked if anything was going on which he
vehemently denied. I was being paranoid he said. Yeah, sure. She sent him a
birthday card with an essay in it and he was sticking to a diet for the first
time since I’d known him. He was exercising, getting contacts, buying new
clothes… I asked him so many times what was going on, but of course I was being
paranoid. We needed a new car, so obviously that was down to me to get the
loan. 7 and a half grand along with the 2 grand credit card we’d run up
(because he couldn’t get credit). The second the money was through, we bought a
car. In cash. I thought nothing of it at the time. The car’s details were never
out of his sight and in his name (I couldn’t drive so again, thought nothing of
it). The rest of the money was transferred into his bank account at his request
for bills. I thought nothing of it. Stupid, naïve girl! But after that long,
you’d think you’d be able to trust someone. Apparently not.
He came home one day from work, after I’d been making a
meal from scratch ready for him when he got back. He wanted to be with her.
He’d arranged to stay at a friend’s house because he knew I would go mental. I
wasn’t being paranoid after all. Fucking Bastard.
The parts I don’t understand;
she’s older than me, fat and has a huge gap between her teeth, looks like she’s
been hit in the face with a spade and has two kids. And is still married. Oh
the face book conversations with her husband! What fun I had. And by fun, I
mean agonising torture when he wouldn’t believe me.
And I thought I could win him back. I thought I wanted him
back. He left me with a rented house that I couldn’t afford on my own, bills,
two cats that I would have to re-home (they were my precious babies.) ten grand
of debt and nowhere to go. My parents had given my room to my brother, and his
room was now a ‘storage room’.
I cried. A lot. I contemplated
suicide. I got so far as cutting down the washing line, setting up a step
ladder under the loft hatch and had the thing around my neck. Unfortunately my
cats were staring at me with such curious expressions that I felt incredibly
guilty. I should have been thinking about my family, but no, it was my cats
that stopped me. That and the sudden lightning strike of realisation that I was
actually free of him. Those wasted years of my life with that fat, lazy,
disgusting, racist, sexist man who thought mocking disabled people was funny.
The one who would get pissed off with me when I woke up in the middle of the
night having an anxiety attack and would beg him to talk me down from
it. The one who had been lying to me for seven years, telling me he had quit
smoking, when everyone knew he hadn’t. Everyone except me that is. The one who
ran from all responsibility and left me to sort a house out to hand back. The
one who then stole the deposit on the rented house that my parents had leant
us. That ‘man’. I didn’t want him back, I just didn’t want to be alone. I was
utterly petrified of it. Nothing frightened me more than that. There was also
the shame of having to move back home as I was unable to support myself. He had
earned a lot more than me and I couldn’t afford to live somewhere on my wages.
I had a house full of things that I loved, books I had imported from Japan,
figurines, clothes, everything that a house generally holds…I had to give it
all away or sell it at car boot sales for pennies. My whole life was laid out
on a couple of tables, all priced up for criminal discounts. All those things I
had spent my wages on, my precious, precious books. My life for sale to anyone
who’d buy it because I just didn’t have the room in the 8x5 room at my
parent’s. God that hurt. And re-homing my precious Hephaistian and Freya… I
still can’t talk about that without welling up.
In the beginning he promised to pay for the loan, after
all, he’d had every penny of it. That soon changed once he had collected
everything of his from the house. I stupidly packed everything for him,
carefully wrapping everything and giving him most of the things that were mine
that he’d bought me. I should have emptied the cat’s litter trays into those
boxes, or hacked all this clothes to pieces. I should have sold all his things
so he had some idea of what I had been through, but I didn’t. I’m not like
that. Stupid, naïve girl, I thought he would pay me back and wanted to keep him
sweet so that he did. On the plus side, his Xbox was covered in Hello Kitty
stickers from when I had redecorated it months ago.
So there I was, 27, moving back in with my parents,
drowning in debt and bitter, twisted and so angry from what that son of a bitch
had done to me. I only cried once in front of my parents, and that was when I
mentioned my cats. I didn’t want them to worry about me, but I was falling
apart.
Antidepressants were part of
my staple diet long before all this, but dosages increased, sleep didn’t
happen, caffeine was abused and food neglected. I got my bellybutton and ears
pierced ( a little late compared to everyone else) but it made me feel like I
was changing, growing, progressing. It was something I had never had the guts
to do before. I would come out of this stronger than ever, brave and
determined.
Only it didn’t work like that.
I’m a wreck. A nervous, anxious mess of a thing, frightened of people and the
world. I don’t trust anyone. Oh and the best part? I hate sex. Yeah, like I
wasn’t going to die alone anyway, no man is going to live without sex.
I’ve been seeing a sexual therapist, but her ‘homework’ is
the stuff of my nightmares. Examining my nether regions in the mirror?
Masturbating in the shower, the bath, in bed, at least three times a week. I
don’t do that. I never have. It makes me feel dirty and disgusting, plus I’ve
never wanted to do it. I’ve never felt the need to. The rest of the world is
out there having sex and using ‘toys’ and all I care about are puppies,
kittens, computer games, movies and music. I’m screwed. I’m going to die a crazy
cat lady that scares all the neighbourhood kids, still living in my parent’s
house that I will inherit once they die. I’ll be a crazy hoarder who can’t move
in her house because it’s full of newspapers, knickknacks and a hundred cats
who will eat my corpse when I die. Eleanor Rigby had more mourners than I will
have at my funeral.
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