Two days ago, we broke up. We had been together for six years, and they were, for the most part, joyful. You kept telling me I was wonderful, and still did so even whilst telling me I wasn’t wonderful enough to make a life with.
Six years is a long time to be with someone and not ever consider taking the next step with them (and by this I do not mean marriage, merely an affirmation that the relationship will continue to last in the future,and some long term plans). We never spent more than a couple of consecutive nights together under the same roof, unless you count the time we took the show on tour in the caravan (with two other people). If I ever mentioned living together in the future, you looked panicked and changed the subject. Understandable had this been three weeks into dating, but it wasn’t.
You had started to get more and more distant with your life; I know you were busy but what hurt is that you preferred to go home to your parents (with whom you still live, at twenty-nine) to relax than to spend time with me. I started to only know what you were doing via Facebook. I began to hide my bouts of depression from you as I was concerned they would be the final push you needed to leave. I had scarlet fever and you left me to cope with it completely alone. You didn’t give my daughter a birthday card or present. You have known her since she was a child.
The final straw was my birthday last week. My present was a birdhouse, made from wood from your garden (presumably so you didn’t have to spend any money on me), and no card. As you pointed out, you did make it yourself, which would have been a lovely gesture had it not been so completely thoughtless. How about building the back gate you promised to build when mine broke, five years ago? How about putting a damn nail on the birdhouse so I could actually hang it up on my tiny fire escape? Or how about just some sodding perfume? You didn’t come to see me on the day itself, but we went out the day afterwards, and had the most stilted, awkward conversations the whole time. It was like needles in my heart; I had never felt this awkward with you or had such difficulty thinking of things to say next. On the way home, I couldn’t help but blurt out, ‘Are you ever going to want to be with me?’, and ‘would your life be easier if I wasn’t in it?’. That helpfully completely ruined my birthday, as you turned pale, didn’t answer, took me home, had a cup of tea with me then left as fast as you could.
What hurts most is that we have been through this before. Two and a half years into our six year relationship, we split up for about three months. The reasons were the same: the neglect, the distance, and the fact that you felt the need to live your own life as ‘just you’, rather than being defined by being in a relationship. I just want to remind you that it was you who came back to me, and you literally got down onto your knees and begged for me to take you back. You said you couldn’t live without me, and wouldn’t want to ever again.
You cried when breaking up with me. You told me you would never find another like me. You said you always wanted to be my friend and forever be in my life. You told me you were still intensely attracted to me. You finished this beautiful compliment to how amazing I am by confirming that I’m just not quite amazing enough to be your forever girl. This hurts more than if you had betrayed me, or been cruel. This rejection is the worst humiliation I have ever experienced, because I cannot fathom it. You said we want different things and are at different stages in our lives. This is completely untrue – we both want the same career, want to live in the same place, and want to chase the same dream. We are even still in a bloody show together. It’s just that you want it on your own, don’t you? You don’t want it to happen alongside me.
The age gap has finally become a problem. You want children, and the fact is that staying with me would mean you would have to have them in the next couple of years, or not at all. You were terrified of that idea. The ironic thing is, we would have had a four year old by now under different circumstances. And we didn’t because of you. Because I didn’t want to tie you down. Because I didn’t want to ruin your life just as you went away to drama school.
I took down all the pictures today of you and I together, of us in shows, of us having fun, of you doing silly faces and still looking ridiculously handsome. It has made no difference; six years together means I have barely any memory which doesn’t involve you, and I can’t shut them out.
Your social media statuses are all about how heartbroken you are, and I want to scream to everybody reacting to them that it was your choice, your decision. Own it. Grow up. You chose this. The worst thing is, nobody will understand. Because to them, you are the perfect, charming gentleman, and I your pretty little bubbly trophy girl. I don’t understand myself. I don’t know how to get over this. I’m not sure I ever will.
The worst part of all of this is that I love you so much. Every time you message me feels like a flesh wound. The other side of the coin is now arising, and I am beginning to feel a hatred for you that I didn’t know I was capable of. It turns out hate really is the same as love. That’s perhaps why I have never hated anyone before. My anger is extreme, and I feel helpless, despairing, furious, anxious, and completely unable to express any of these emotions.
I am done with dating. I am too old now anyway. I can’t bear the thought of starting this all over again, with someone that isn’t you. Thanks for the life lesson. I’ve learned that I am just not enough. My depression has been telling me that nearly all my life; it’s wonderful to have it confirmed. I feel validated. Sarcasm aside, I just don’t know what to do now. Sleep would be a start.