Confessions of a broken hearted slut, Part 2

Well, I didn’t know I was going to do this. In fact, I’m still not sure I should so I’m just going to fill myself with vegan ice cream and wine until I do.

Having got ice cream and wine, this quote proves I am drunk enough to write this blog- “I should put on my fat man t-shirt and take off all the rest of my clothes and have rampant sex with myself and drink the rest of my wine then cry about my life.”

Yes, I did just actually say that. No, I don’t know why. No, I don’t have rampant sex with myself.

Alright, here goes, lets get the worst over with.

I’ve never been in a relationship where I didn’t cheat, although I’ve never admitted it before.

I just hope to god that none of my ex’s read this post. Of course, as I don’t believe in God it will fully serve me right if they do.

It’s not as bad as it sounds. I never slept with anyone else. Just pretty much everything else in between.

Let me tell you a story. It’s not an interesting one, there’s no excitement or big deals, or happy endings. No explosions or car crashes.

There once was a little girl. An accident, born from two people that didn’t love each other, or even like each other. She grew up from childminders and babysitters and nursery. After school play groups and holiday clubs and people who are payed to care. There was no love in that house, and that’s why it broke. She was given to boys who hurt her and touched her and laughed at her. She never spoke a word, just kept it all wrapped up in her little head where it all rotted in one big mess. Foul teachers, childish bullies, fickle friends, an inadequate father and an absent, but caring mother, it all mixed up in a vile steamy soup of hurt inside her head. And through it all, men were cruel, men were uncaring, men were demanding and foul and treated her like an object, a machine. The little girl grew up, she became a young, impressionable woman. She learned to lie and steal and bitch and back talk and hurt. She learned to gossip and how to be two faced, how to gain friends and lose them in the blink of an eye. She learned to act, as she had done every day of her life. And she grew up pretty enough to catch teenage boys eyes.

It’s a funny thing isn’t it? The first boy that notices you? I was bisexual from the day I had a sexuality at all, but the oppressive homophobic environment I lived in effectively squashed that half of my nature. But the first boy is always a memorable one. It doesn’t matter what his name was, how old he was, how tall he was, all that matters is that he chose someone else. He played me like a game. As did the next boy, and the next and the next and the next. I was too young, too naive, too eager to please. As I had been my whole life.

I remember the exact moment when my heart hardened, when I decided to play these fickle creature at their own game. I was sitting, crying about a boy who changed his mind, left for a girl who promised him sex- the one thing I was unsure of giving. Then I decided that if I was to keep myself safe, I must be selfish. I took all those broken encounters and built them into a wall around me. Letting them down to no one. Every time I am hurt, or used or broken, it makes the walls thicker and stronger and harder. I made the choice to hurt others before they hurt me.

None of this excuses my actions, nothing does.

I made love into a game, into a song. I sang it loud and true, but at the end I walked off the stage leaving the audience spellbound and waiting.

It left me feeling so, so cold.

I let my guard down once, when I found the boy I thought I’d always been looking for. But he was weak and stupid and I left him broken and confused and unsure of what he’d done wrong. Since then I have lived through the worst days of my life.

One night, a man took something from me he had no right to take. He took it by force, or at least without consent as I was too far gone on alcohol and whatever else they put in my drink to fight him off. Other boys had tried to take it all in the past, and they left their scars, but I always managed to hold them at bay. It was not as great a violation as the first time, but it ruined me utterly. I am nothing now but a pile of memories, held loosely together with drugs and propped up by my family, friends and of course, my wonderful Jonathan.

Ever been hit by a lightening bolt? Realising I loved my Jon was a little like I imagine that to be like. He is so perfect so good so pure. He was honesty and chivalry and reality. He has his feet in the ground, when I do my best impression of having my head in the clouds. He quite literally picked me up when I was broken and crying on the floor and always did his best to put me back together again. I know who he is, and he knows who I am. Mostly.

I had an epiphany tonight, as I stood elbow deep in washing up suds.  You can’t love someone when you don’t even know who they are. You can love the idea of them, the things you think they are, but not them in all their exactness.

Which lead me to wonder, who am I? I’m asking myself a lot of hard questions right now, and my conclusions are this.

I don’t want to be the things I do. I want to be a good person, and I will find a way to become that. I have to give up my habit of treating men like toys, irregardless of how they treat me. I will not make all their gender suffer for the hurt given to me by but a few deranged individuals. And finally, I will choose to love Jonathan.

Love, I have always believed, is a choice. And this is what I choose. I choose to be a girl who is worthy of standing next to Jon and claiming his hand in mine. I choose to be kind and tender and sweethearted. I choose to take off the mask and become nothing more or nothing less than myself, with anyone. And I choose to love my man to the utmost of my ability, with all that I am. I don’t care how hard it is, I will find a way, and I do not want to choose another. I choose to leave my past behind, and let it burn itself out. I choose to end the lies and live a life worth living, every day that that pleasure is mine. This road isn’t easy, nothing ever is. But it is my choice to make.

Wish me luck internet, I’m going to need the rest of that wine if this shit bag hits the proverbial internet fan.

Debbimouse, over and out.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s