So.. I haven’t written one of these in a long time, and this is definitely one of those cases of “If you care about me as a person, you should definitely read this. If you don’t, you probably shouldn’t.
This tale of my miserableness all started around the end of July.
I met this really great guy on Twitter, and we soon started chatting and talking a bunch about various topics, and soon those topics included one thing: Me going to visit him in the UK and spening time with him physically. When we first brought this up, we made a little joke of sending each other three plane emoji every time someone scratched the topic of being together in person. “Get on a plane and just come here.” This was before I fell in love with him.
I quickly booked a plane ticket, to my own surprise, honestly, when I realized that my feelings about him had changed. No, he wasn’t just a cute guy I’d love to be friends with anymore. I was in love with him. More than I’d ever been with anyone else, honestly. And to me at the time, that just justified my reason to visit him even more.
So there we were. August 6. I get out of the plane, through the ID check, they find a scratch on my ID card but punch the code in manually and let me through. And there he is. Black bobble beanie, gray vans, his fun backpack with that weird strap you can pull to close the top rather than a zipper. The first thing I did when I saw him is run up to him and hug him. And we hugged for a good long time compared to most other people, honestly. That same day, we’d lay in his bed together in the afternoon and we’d be cuddled up. We’d already kissed a couple hours before that, but we stopped for a second and he looked me in the eyes and said “I love you.” He knew that I did, I told him when I first realized. I probably started smiling bigger than ever before and my first reaction was “You said it!”, and I’m honestly not sure if I did, but I hope I said “I love you” back, because that’s definitely the feeling I had.
The week and a half of us being together passed pretty quickly, as a happy couple walking around town holding hands, me going to his work with him and sitting around playing games and coding while he was working, us occasionally walking up to each other and kissing. Right now, I’m describing the best thing that’s ever happened to me.
We met a second time, about a month later, for fifteen days this time. First, he came to Germany to visit me for five days, and then we took a plane back together and I stayed there for another ten days. The second time I was there, I got to meet some of his friends and it was really great.
The night I left at the airport, we hugged. We stood there hugging for a good minute or more. Then we kissed. Then we said goodbye.
And then I cried. I cried so much. So much more than the first time. I knew we’d see each other again, but I also knew how hard it would be for me the first couple of days being without him. I loved him more than anything, after all.
So then, everything was great. I went back home, and in October, I started uni. It was a big change for me, moving out and into my own apartment, not living with my parents anymore, but the thing that held me to the ground most was knowing that, even though he was in a different country, and even though he was really busy, he was always there for me, no matter what.
I was sad, he made me happy. I was worried, he stopped me. I was anxious, he made me realize I don’t have to be.
And then, after his trip to America.. everything suddenly changed. He told me about how he hadn’t been feeling well at all in the relationship lately, and I understood. Granted, I had also realized that the relationship had sometimes brought me down in a couple of ways – I’m bad at trusting people, I’m quick to judge, and I’m anxious and really attached. So yes, it was causing me problems. But no, of course I didn’t want to break up. He felt like the love of my life.
But I agreed. I thought that if he thinks breaking up is the way to make both of us (especially him) happier, then yes, of course it’s the way I want to go. So we broke up after less than three months of being together, and it was so hard for me. I stayed home from uni and my apartment (so with my parents) for about a week before trying to return. At first it worked okay. I had multiple breakdowns every single day as I tried to deal with the fact that the only thing holding me to the ground was gone. And I still loved him.
A couple weeks later, he had a new boyfriend. We’d stayed in contact for a bit because we wanted to try to stay friends, and we both loved each other still, at least that’s what he told me. And I didn’t blame him for getting a new boyfriend. Maybe he just fell in love with someone else, maybe he wanted something to compensate. It was fine with me. It honestly was. It hurt a lot, emotionally, but I knew rationally that he wasn’t to blame. After all, we weren’t together anymore, and the main thing I wanted still was for him to be happy. I wanted the person I love to be happy, and if that’s achieved by me not being there, then so be it.
This is the part where, while writing this, I’m starting to cry.
After I found out he had a new boyfriend, I couldn’t deal emotionally. I stayed home for another week as my depression only got worse, desperately trying to somehow control or contain it by being in an environment I’m used to rather than in my apartment at uni alone. It didn’t work. I had so many panic attacks, breakdowns, and everything. My friends tried so hard to help me but it probably felt virtually impossible, at least to me, to make me get better. During all of this time, I kept checking his Twitter and his Facebook because I needed to know what was going on in his life. I needed to know if he was happy. I needed to know if he missed me, if he wanted me back. I wanted him to want me back. I wanted him to message me one day and say “I shouldn’t have broken up with you. I miss you so much.” I wanted him to be miserable without me just so he would come back to me. I wanted him to suffer from being alone, but then he wasn’t. He wasn’t alone anymore and at that point I realized he probably wouldn’t ever be coming back to me. And it caused me to break down even more. Heck, it caused me to start cutting again.
And it wasn’t even his fault. We were broken up, he was probably on his path back to being happy. And that’s good. How could I blame him for that? I don’t know.
But I started anyway. Pretending my feelings and my being miserable were only caused by him, that the way he acted was unfair to me, that he used me, that he toyed around with me, that he never loved me. “Maybe he cheated on me and that’s why he wanted to break up,” I thought. “Maybe he never loved me to begin with.” I strated mixing thoughts of fabricated hate with my depression, my loneliness and the fact that, despite everything that had happened, I still loved him so much. “He doesn’t deserve me,” I thought. “I deserve someone so much better than him.”
Relatively early on, I started to try to compensate too. I got Grindr again and I made a Tinder account, I met up with two guys from my uni for dates, hoping they’d make me stop thinking of my ex. But every cute guy I saw, every word, every facial feature reminded me of how unalike they are to my ex, of how little they resemble him, of how little they can replace him. And in the end, it only made me spiral more and more into depression and helplessness.
Every Monday and Tuesday, I have to hand in these homework assignments for my courses in uni. I stopped taking effort for them after we broke up. I stopped writing down notes, I stopped doing research, I stopped trying to understand. Yes, I wanted to understand. Yes, I wanted to do good work. But somehow.. I just couldn’t. No matter what I tried, I couldn’t get myself to go to lectures and interact with people, to write down notes, to do anything really. I still feel like I’m going to fail uni if I keep going like this, and I especially feel like I’m letting the people down that I have to hand the assignments in with. Every piece of coursework has to be handed in in groups of two or four, and so if I do badly, the other people in my group do too. And that thought absolutely kills me. Letting people down is the worst thing to me. I can’t deal with it.
And so here I am. It’s been about one and a half months since we broke up now. I still love him. I still miss him. I still have to force myself so hard not to check his Twitter to see how he’s doing. Seeing pictures or thinking of memories of him still makes me break into tears. All of this is still the only topic my friends ever get to hear about. I’m probably going to fail the uni exams because I can’t get my work done. I haven’t brushed me teeth in two weeks because somehow, I just can’t motivate myself to do basic life things anymore. My dishes haven’t been washed, my fridge hasn’t been cleaned, no groceries have been shopped for, and I’m as miserable as the day we broke up, if not worse.
And I keep wondering every single day:
Is this my fault? That I’m like this? Is he doing so much better because he’s just a smarter, nicer, better person? Am I just doing so bad because I’m a miserable idiot that can’t get his life and his emotions under control?
Whose fault is this? Is it mine?
I’m going to be completely honest here: I don’t know where I want to take my life, and I feel like every day, the ground beneath my feet is slipping away more and more, leaving me with less options as I go. I’ve been feeling so much worse every single day for the past month and a half, and even though friends and I have been tellling me that it’s getting better, and that I’m improving, and that I’m recovering, it feels like every day I’m just grasping harder at straws to find something, anything, to keep me alive. “And for what?” is always the question in my mind.
Is this because I’m pathetic?
Or does it make sense?
Am I being an idiot about everything?
Am I just being super overly dramatic, and everyone goes through this, they just know how to deal with it because they’re functioning people and I’m not?
Am I not good enough for this world?
Do I deserve this?
I don’t know.
I really don’t.
I might delete this post in the near or far future for any reason. If you keep a copy of it, it just makes you a bad person. Please don’t.