Monday, 27 August 2012

"Rigid, the skeleton of habit alone upholds the human frame"

I have neglected to talk about my eating disorder for a while.
In some ways I feel like I don't have an eating disorder anymore because it has become so normal it barely hurts. On average I am throwing up once a day - of course at weekends this can often be up to three or four times a day.
Being off work for two weeks between jobs was dreadful. While I had time to run between 6-20 miles a day, I also had time to eat and throw up several times a day.

There was a period - April to May - when things really started to settle down. I was throwing up once or twice a week, my weight was stable, I ate breakfast, lunch and dinner... but I was also going to bed at 9pm and getting up at 5am, studying and staying safe, never going out, never drinking, never getting on to the stage...

Weight wise I'm actually exactly the same. I have not lost or put on anything. But it all unravelled after I finished my exams, applied for the new position, got turned down, quit my job, begged for Theo...

Sure, I made progress for about two months, really started to get back on the road to health... but then, I just came back again. I'm exactly the same as how I have been for so long. Bulimic,

But it isn't the eating disorder that makes me cry or makes me fearful of getting out of bed. The eating disorder is just this thing on the side, a reaction or response to my pain, but not the cause of the pain.

And there isn't anybody that knows. I suppose my therapist does, but it feels like we've all but given up on the physical eating problems now - "You know all of this." Yes, yes I do, I've been in treatment for two years. Like a crutch. A crutch that I put away in a corner and forget about until the time comes for me to walk through the hospital doors and sit in the waiting room to see her again. I don't deal with it inbetween sessions.

So, nobody. Mum doesn't know.
"Have you been sick again?" "You still have eating problems don't you!"
"No Mum." End of conversation.
None of my friends know, especially none of the friends I have made in the last year. I mean... it's just not done when you're a 24 year old adult . What the hell would they say to me?
Maybe Theo knew. Ah, but then he is a man, he would only think I were ill if I were desperately stick thin... if Theo knew he just let me get on with it.

Nobody, and I've barely even written about it here very much. And this is what I mean. I feel like I don't have an eating disorder any more. It's just a part of my life. I just do it and carry on. I just do this. i just do

I'll stop next week, I say. I'll stop after I've seen Theo for the last time, after I go out with Oliver, after this weekend, after, after,
I'll look at some thinspo this evening. And then I'll stop.
He'll love me if I'm thin. I'm a wonderful, intelligent, kind, loving woman. But he'll love me if I'm thin. They will love me. I will love me. Love or something.


http://opheliaflowers.blogspot.co.uk/2011/02/write-now.html

My therapist is making me go through a book called 'Overcoming Perfectionism'. In it there is a chapter on procrastination - putting things off because you are scared or convinced that you are going to fail. And failure is the most scary, sickening, self-destroying thing.
"If I had my way, I'd sit in my room and write all day." I've written about it and explored it so many times, battled with it for so long. If I carry on with this route in the financial services I'll spend so long working and fighting for something I don't even want to do. Not really. And yet I'm quite set on doing that.

It's the same old arguments and internal conflicts over and over again. I have to be brave and cut away from these cycles, these habits, these ridiculous conceptions of success and identity... I have to stop wanting to be an actress on a stage. I have to stop being afraid of who I really am.

"Love, love, the low smokes roll / From me like Isadora's scarves..."

Perhaps I was never in love with Theo, perhaps I was in love with a character I had created from the pages of the novels I had read and dreamt of. Part Heathcliff, part Sebastian Flyte, part Hamlet perhaps (though it feels sacrilegious even comparing them). But the passion and the fire and the pain were just... wonderful. God damn if I ever can experience that again...

I wonder why I had loved Alex so much and clung on so desperately to him when it seems so glaringly obvious now that he could never have satisfied me? He is with a girl now, so perfect for him. I suppose, when I look at it from his point of view he had his fun, he ticked the box of going out with a wild one, then he went his way - the way he knew he always would. A lovely girl, plain, simple, safe, obviously lovely. Someone he can go on romantic walks in the countryside with, who will eat eggs and bacon and sausages with him in the morning.

But Theo would never have satisfied me either. Satisfied my yearning to be in the middle of wild, romantic, terrible tale of heartache - yes. But not satisfied the happy ending I so vehemently claim to desire. That little Alex's ending right there. Although I know I am not the girl who can ever do that or be happy doing that.


I went out with a guy on Monday. I had met him at some classes for the finance exams I did before the Summer. He was the only guy in the class I had been attracted to, so of course, I made my resolve to have him. I messaged him the other week, pretending to ask advice. He offered to meet up with me. So we did. And by the time I left him an hour later, I had him wrapped around my little finger. All week he has been trying to get me to go out with him again.
He's a great catch: 27 years old, cute smile, grounded, well-paid, works in Investment in the City...
Of course. But I got what I wanted, played a little game, had my little kick. No. There is no passion there. I don't care what the good girls say, I only want passion, I only want intense feeling, I only want adrenaline. I don't want nice, or well-paid or grounded.
I don't want to see him again.

But Oliver on the other hand... I want to see him again. I sat there opposite him last week trying to imagine what it would be like to have sex with him. There's no way he'd know how to touch a woman, how to excite me or make me burst with desire. I'd like to be proved wrong but I doubt I will.
But I am going to have sex with him. Because I decided I would. And after that it will probably be over. I cannot let myself fall for an 18 year old.
And that's obviously why I'm doing this, playing out a little One Direction fantasy, being a little bit bad, doing something that everyone tells me not to do. Cos it's fun; cos I'm bored.
The more my friends told me to walk away from Theo, the more determined I was to have him,

You know, sometimes you have to write things you don't want to admit. I'm holding my hands up here. This is what this blog is for. No fabrications, no lovely frilly stories. This is not some fucking entertainment. This is the dark/sad/pathetic reality of who I am.
*shrugs shoulders*
I wish that the truth were nicer. But I cannot make it so.
But then, perhaps I know that in writing this I am trying to make it ok to myself, trying to make an excuse - rightly or wrongly. It's ok that I have failed at love, for I decided that I wanted to, deep down I was always in control... I was in a fright one scarf will catch and anchor in the wheel. Don't want to be hurt my therapist says.


Oliver is a musician, at music college, will probably spend his life playing in orchestras. It's already his life now. And I admire him for it so very much. He knows it is not a stable, well-paid career, but he has made his choices based on what he loves, and it's very clear from his dedication that he loves it deeply.
I told him I admired it:
"I think it's wonderful. If I had my way, I'd sit in my room and write all day," I told him.
"Really?!" He seemed shocked. Naturally so, since the girl he'd met was so openly hell-bent on her career in the City.
"Yes, of course, I studied English Literature, I loved it, I love words, I love art, beauty... But I wasn't as brave as you. I wanted a career, a steady job. I was too afraid to do what I loved."

Even now, if I could go back to University and have my chance again, I'd study Economics. How sad is that.

There is no room for love in the world. At least, no room for it in the world I want to live in.

Sunday, 19 August 2012

So maybe I'm a masochist



I went out with Oliver last night.

Wait, I'm starting the story too quickly. Let me take a step back.

On Monday I started my new position. I am an 'intern' at an energy fund. At the time it seemed like a good idea. But of course it wasn't. I sit in a tiny office, with a few other people, all doing their own thing, all talking in another language... Most of all, I miss the markets, I miss the macro, I miss reading the newspaper in the morning and being exited to see how the latest crisis in the eurozone is going to make my day ahead interesting.

Oh God, no one has ever broken my heart like the people who made the decision to turn down my application to move departments in my last job. How can it be that I work so hard and give so much and all I do is fail and fail and fail. How can they sleep at night knowing that they broke the heart of a girl who had been broken so much?

What am I going to do, what am I going to do. No, really, what am I going to do? Get another job I hate, go back to school and do a masters or another course that will get me nowhere, stick it out in this place alone and interning, pack it all in, give up?

How can you be a City Girl when you don't work in The City anymore. My new office is in Mayfair. I need buzz, I feed off the energy of the square mile and the pink paper of the Financial Times. It's part of the identity that I need.


When I handed in my office pass for the last time three weeks ago, I stepped down off the stage again, that goddamn stage. Yeah, that was it, just another show I'd put on, just another pair of heels I had strutted across the stage in.
And you know why I'm unhappy in this new internship that I've started? I don't have a show to star in. I can wear cardigans and flat shoes and no mascara. I felt that old feeling that there's no point in living if there is no-one in the audience to admire you. This was never about being happy, this was always about the goddamn show.

http://opheliaflowers.blogspot.co.uk/2011/07/game.html
http://opheliaflowers.blogspot.co.uk/2010/10/interim.html



One of the guys I had worked with was leaving to work in the New York office so I went along to his leaving drinks on Friday. Theo was there of course. Yes, I was probably going because I knew he was going to be there. But it was different this time.
I wore a new dress - bold red and so tight I could barely sit down. I pulled out all the stops and put on my most beautiful face. And I did it to show him what he was missing.
"You look incredibly hot," one guy told me.
"Do you think Theo is killing himself with regret?"
"I hope so."

I didn't look at Theo once, ignored him when he passed me, chatted and laughed and shined with everyone else around him. And did not look at him once.
Yes, I saw him looking at me though. And God it was so wonderful to feel the balance of power turn at last.
But then if I'm honest there was another motive: I wanted him to come crawling back to me. I knew now that what people said was true: playing hard to get was sexy and more appealing than being available. I wanted Theo to go mad with jealousy and regret and come crawling back to me.

But as things started to wind down, I put on my jacket, grabbed my bag and headed outside with my friend to leave. Theo was outside, leaning against the wall. I couldn't stop myself.
"Hi Theo."
"How are you bubs?"
I frowned at him. What the fuck was that. He never called me an affectionate pet name in his life, and now he was making out like we were close?
"I'm fine."
I looked the other way. He was so drunk he could barely stand. I didn't understand how he could get himself into such as state.
He staggered back into the bar without another word.

I looked at my friend who was busy on her phone.
"Hang on," I said, "I'll be back."
I rushed back inside the bar after him. Thinking back on it now, I'm not even sure why. I just wanted to talk to him, I wanted to... talk to him... ask him how he was, make small talk...something
He hadn't gone far, he was asking the bar girl for something and she looked troubled, shaking her head. He was so fucked. I went over and put my hand on his back, "It's ok," I reassured her, "I'll look after him." She smiled at me gratefully.
Theo swayed, staring at the ground.
"Theo, Theo honey, how the fuck did you get so drunk? You need to fucking drink less, seriously."
"I know, I've been told before."
"Babe, sit down..."
"No."
"Fucking hell..."
"I need to eat. I want a McDonald's..."
He was in such a state I didn't even think twice. "OK, shall we go get you a McDonald's?"
"Yes!"
I escorted him out of the bar and into the nearest taxi. He held my hand tightly like a frightened child.

"I can't pay for a taxi!" he whined.
"I'm fucking paying ok. Just get in." He sat in the taxi with his head hanging, eyes closed. I put my hand on his thigh and rubbed it. It was pity. What I felt for him was nothing more than pity.
We got him his McDonald's and sat on the steps outside Liverpool Street Station while he devoured it silently. I stroked his back and smoothed down his hair.
There was so much I wanted to say, but I was afraid of him when he was like this. I didn't want him to get angry and fly off the handle. But I ventured cautiously, "Theo, you know I don't want anything from you, I just want you to be happy."
He said nothing but put his arm around me and pulled me in close to his chest and kissed me on the top of my head. "It was good to see you again," he said.

I wasn't going to throw myself at him this time. I wasn't going to tell him I loved him, I wasn't going to go and have sex with him. After being away from him in the office it had given me the space to appreciate that it was really over.
"Ok let's get you in a taxi to go home honey."
"No, leave me here."
I rolled my eyes. "I'm not fucking leaving you sitting here in this state. Come on, let's get you a taxi."
"No."
"Do you want me to leave you alone?"
He shook his head, and quietly whispered, "no."
I sat there silently, staring at him as he sat with his head in his hands. My eyes were dry. I was going out with Oliver tomorrow. I wasn't going to cry and make my face puffy for it. I had been true to my word in my last post, I had forced my heart to go cold when I thought about Theo. And yet I was sitting there, knowing that I was missing my last train home. I was sitting there, holding on to him tightly in return, the poor little boy who I wanted to save so desperately.
"I'm sorry I was so mental before," I said.
"It's fine. Really. I made you mental."

We agreed that he would get a bus. We looked around for the right stops, his hand still tightly in mine. The wrong buses came and went. He held me close and looked deep into my eyes. I could see how much he wanted me. But he'd made the decision to end it, and now so had I. We kissed once or twice, on the lips but just pecks. I wasn't going to kiss him properly. I didn't want to.

I didn't want to.

I knew that if I let myself melt in his arms and let my heart go warm that I would end up crying all the way home and crying all weekend again. I was done with it. I had my weekend planned away from him.

When the bus came, it turned out it wasn't going to the right place. He flew off the handle, slammed the bus stop post repeatedly, swearing loudly and violently.
"Theo," I tried to put an arm around him to calm him down, "Stop it, it's ok."
He didn't listen to me and pushed me off. I backed away shaking my head. I could feel people watching me. I wasn't going to let them shake their head in pitying me too because they thought I loved this fool.
"Fuck it, I'm getting a taxi. Fuck this!" he yelled.
I gave him a £10 note to pay for it, and he ran off into the street and into the nearest taxi. I watched it drive off, Theo in the back seat with his head in his hands.

I walked towards London Bridge numbly. He was not my problem anymore. Thank God, he was not my problem anymore.
I had missed my last train and the last tube so had to wait for a series of night buses. I'd done that for that stupid boy. But you know what, at least I wasn't crying and at least I knew I was the bigger person in being able to send him home.



I didn't get into bed until gone 3am. I slept for most of the day, knowing that I had to go out with Oliver that evening and had to look perfect. It's amazing how easy it is not to eat when there is a boy involved.

So I was finally going out with Oliver. I met him outside Covent Garden tube station and took him to a noisy bar nearby.
Oliver. Ok let me try and make this interesting...or well, ok, let me just tell you what happened.
Let's recap - Oliver is the guy I met when I went on a night out in Brighton, who after a bit of Google-stalking, I realised was only 18-years-old. Now, as far as I had remembered, he was the most good-looking boy I had ever met, obviously, I had slightly overdone this estimation. Don't get me wrong, he was very cute, very cute indeed, like a slightly more angelic looking Harry Styles. But the feeling of wanting to rip his clothes off and ravage him wasn't really there.

He gave me a peck on the cheek when I arrived, which I thought was nice, and we spent most of the evening chatting away quite happily. We talked about his music studies, music in general, my work, travel, families, all very stereotypical first date stuff. He was lovely, and easy at talking, and we got on well enough.

I suppose there were two things that I found problematic:
1. The first time we had met we had been snogging the face of each other and dancing inappropriately in a dark corner of a club. This time we were sitting, drinking, chatting and on impeccable behaviour.
2. It was like the most painfully stereotypical date ever. A "lets go out, have a few drinks and get to know each other" type date. And um, quite frankly, that's not something I do very often. And it was just weird. For me, being on a date like that, was just weird. The "snogging the face of each other and dancing inappropriately in a dark corner of a club" stuff - I get that. (Which I guess speaks volumes about me.)

He was so sweet and lovely. I could tell he'd never been cruel in his life, he was wonderful. I wonder what he thought of me. Definitely none of those things, I swear too much and pout too much.
I would like to see him again, I would like to sit and laugh and chat with him again, I'd like to kiss him.
And I hate that I compared him to Theo as we sat there. The terrible burning passion and chemistry between me and Theo, I hate that I wanted that. I want sweet and lovely. I'd like to see Oliver again because he's sweet and lovely.
When we departed ways after four hours of chat, I gave him another hug and he gave me another peck on the cheek.
"I'll send you a text," he said.
"Cool, I'll see you soon, enjoy the rest of your weekend!"
I found it difficult to behave in the way I usually would - in other words I found it very difficult to be my usual forward self. I would have liked to have kissed him properly again. I don't know if I held back because I knew he was only 18 or because I didn't want to have anything with him.
I genuinely don't know. Would I have had sex with him? Yes. But I'm not sure if that's because I actually wanted to or because I felt like I had made up my mind that I wanted to when I first met him.

And you'd think that was it wouldn't you. But no. Even with an 18-year-old boy who I'm not sure that I like, I am still mental. I freaked out when the light on our table was pointing in my face. He's going to see my blemishes, he's going to think I look old.. had to go to the toilet to touch up and re-touch up my make up, had to sit back in my chair when he lent in too close, please don't think I'm ugly, please don't think I'm ugly.

He said he'll send me a text. When? Like a foolish teenager I look up on Google: "When will a guy text after a first date?"
You see. I knew this would happen. Like, whatever happens, or whenever it happens, it is not going to work out between me and Oliver, it's just not. And when it doesn't, I'm going to think that it's because I'm too fat, too ugly, and now something new: too old.

If he doesn't text me I'm going to think it's because I didn't look good enough.

My therapist was right: "You need to get out of the cycle of choosing men who you know it won't work out with." Was it because I didn't want to be with someone, was it habit, or do I like the pain? Do I like being able to use these failed relationships as proof that I am not good enough - not thin enough - not pretty enough. I only go for guys who I think will reinforce this belief. Why? I must like the pain. I must.

Friday, 10 August 2012

When I am an old woman I will read these stories from my twenties and laugh

17/07/2012
Thank you for the supportive comments, it has certainly been a tough few weeks.
A tough few weeks, handled without care on my part, but surprisingly, I have very little regret.

So I packed away the CFA study books, I handed in my notice, and I went back onto the diet that I never failed to fly me away to the outskirts of outerspace: Fit men and alcohol.

On the first weekend after quitting my job I went on a weekend trip to Brighton with two of the girls I worked with. We kicked back and enjoyed the scene, miles away from the commercial towers of London, just sea and wind and no ties to hold us down. After doing a round of the little town, we made our way to a club called 'The Honey Club' along the front of the beach, my friends and I standing the queue with a bunch of men on a stag do, me feeling decidely dejected by the severe lack of male talent on offer. In fact, I had not met one guy who had even slightly raised one of my eyebrows in interest.

Until he walked past me.
Straight past me, in the guestlist queue on the other side, 6'1, dark messy hair and one of the most beautiful faces I had ever seen. My eyes bored into the back of his head, willing him to turn around and lock eyes with me. He was with a group of lads, and they all looked pretty young, at a guess I would have said there were about 18, but he stood out from them, his looks marking him out as more than just a silly teenage boy.
"Oh look! It's One Direction!" mobbed the guys in the queue beside us. "They must have got their guestlist entry on the back of cereal packet!"
I did not react.

Once inside I pointed him out to my friends and brought them over to dance in the area where the boys were. He was with his friends, he wasn't even looking at anyone else, let alone looking at me. So my friend pulled him over and shoved him at me. Awkwardly grabbing at her to stop and feeling a little ridiculous and pathetic I squirmed.
"Hi", I shouted
"Hi!", he shouted back.
I stared at him with a forced smile... what the fuck did you say to some random guy your friend has just shoved in your face?
"What's your name?" he continued,
"Ophelia.... Are you having fun?!"
"Yeah!" came the reply. I nodded at his answer and smiling again like an airhead, started dancing, assuming that he would turn around and go back to his friends. As he started dancing too, I began to feel uncomfortable - this was not the way I usually met guys - ever. He was still staring at me, and I began to wish I hadn't met him in such an awkward way. I stared up at him, making my eyes as big and as round as possible, a little smile on my lips, we had started to break away from his friends, as one rushed up behind him and shouted - presumably in a loud whisper, but what was very audible - "Kiss her!"
The boy obligingly wrapped his arms around my waist, and smiling sweelty, pulled me in for an embrace.

He was a sweet kisser, very soft, very delicate, not like anybody I had been used to kissing before. We managed to speak a few words - I asked him how old he was.
"Twenty" came the reply. I stopped myself from saying "you look so much younger" thinking that it probably wasn't a very nice thing for a guy to hear from a girl. Ok, so he was young, but twenty was old enough... after all, I am only twenty-four.
We spent what seemed like forever making out in a dark corner. He was so very beautiful that it was very easy for me to touch him and dance with him. I stroked his face and hair like I used to do with Theo and gently bit his ear to let him know there was more if he wanted it. We took a break outside and he asked for my number. I smiled and gave it willingly - like us, he was just in Brighton for the weekend and happened to live very near me in London. I promised to take him out in London when we got back. He told me that he was in his second year of Music College in London - I asked him what he played, expecting to hear that he was in a fledging rock band
- he plays the trumpet.
I laughed, this boy was cute inside and out.

Eventually, he had to go back to his friends and I had to go back to mine. He had my number and I had little doubt that he would be in contact.

Sure enough, on Sunday evening he messaged me:
Hi it's Oliver from the club in Brighton. It was nice to meet you x

I shook my head and laughed. Nice to meet you? So young.
We decided to meet up on Friday, I would take him out somewhere good in London, show him a good time... get Theo out of my system once and for all.
But curiosity got the better of me, I typed his name into google wondering if I could find out more about him. What I found gave me the shock of my life and sent my friends into fits of hysterical laughter.
There he was, in his school newsletter, Oliver, Head of Music, Upper Sixth...
He was still at school - well, would have just finished school when I met him - but still, fantasically, had lied about his age. He was not twenty, he was eighteen. I was right. He did look young - because he WAS.

I was not going to worry though - a pretty guy was a pretty guy - I only wanted him for one thing - for one distraction - it was never going to be anything serious. I was going to go ahead with it.
Until on Friday he was no longer replying to my messages or answering my calls.
I went to get my hair done anyway - there was no way he was going to cancel on me. He had told me only yesterday he was still up for it.

His phone was off. All day.
I cried.
Twice on the trot - first Harry, now Oliver.

I didn't give up. On Monday, determined for him to face up to speaking with me, I continued trying to call. Still off...
Maybe he had lost it or had it stolen? Why else would it still be off.
Finally I got through. He apologied profusely, begging me to believe that he had lost his phone. He seemed genuinely upset by my coldness and I couldn't help but be understanding.

I knew he was going away that week and wouldn't be back until the begining of August, and he promised to contact me as soon as he was back to arrange a date to go out.

***

Meanwhile, I'd been busy attracting attention elsewhere. News had spread that I had handed in my notice at work, and suddenly one of the IT guys, Jay, piped up and started chatting to me. I'm not going to lie, he was cute. Yes, he was very cute. And I liked him. But I didn't like him enough. I couldn't imagine kissing him let alone wanting to rip his clothes off. While my friends in the office were delighted (he is reknown for his cuteness), I warned them that I didn't want to take it anywere. I would walk all over him, I would never be faithful...
But I loved the attention, I flirted back, I messaged him all evening, he left me little chocolates at work, and come the following Friday, as another part of the office were going out for drinks, I said that I would join him.

I stood in the office toilets staring at myself in the mirror, turning this way and that, butterflies in my stomach, touching up every square milimetre of my face to make sure I looked perfect.
Jay. I was going because I wanted to hang out with Jay.
Or was I going because the day before Jay had told me that the last time we were out, Theo had been "watching him like a hawk" when he was talking to me. Was I going because I thought that Theo was going to be at these work drinks and because I wanted him to see me with Jay and get jealous.

It turned to be the latter.
Sure, I stayed and chatted to Jay and those he was friends with, but I never lost track of where Theo was. And then, as the group thinned out and drinks neared their end, those remaining started to talk about moving on to a nearby club. It was me, Theo, and four others. I waved Jay off as he went to catch his train, standing next to Theo as I did so. Everything else was as it always was. We chatted , we drank, we danced, I did my best to pretend that I wasn't there for him, he did his best to pretend he wasn't there for me. And then it was just us two left in the club - Theo and me. And then we were kissing, and then we were all over each other, and then we were having sex again.

I spoke to him straightly about our relationship - he answered me straightly.
"I know it's a cliché," he said, "But it's not you, it's me. I don't want anything serious."
"I just want you in my life in some capacity."
He shook his head.

05/08/2012

I stopped writing. And I didn't come back to finish the story. I have to finish this chapter of my life off.
I'm not going to carry on writing about that night, it was just another like all the others Theo and I had had earlier in the year: sex and no commitment.

My last day at work was Friday 27th July - Theo had done all of the usual things the week before, not answering any of my calls or text messages. So I sent him a text on Friday morning:
"If you don't answer this I am going to come over to your desk and embarass you. Not a threat, just a fact."
Oh that made him answer. We went for a coffee before work and started to battle through the conversation with him.

Every question I asked him I was met with the answer: "I don't know."
He didn't know how he felt about me, he didn't know what he wanted,
"I'm not good at talking about my feelings."
"I noticed."

I became frustrated but we had to be at our desks. Let's finish the conversation later.
He does not reply to my messages or calls. He does not fucking reply to my messages or calls.
I sent him a message on Saturday night: "It is humiliating and embarassing every time you do not reply and I have to send you another message. Grant me some fucking dignity and reply."
He finally called on Sunday.
"I'm not good talking over the phone."

So we met up on Thursday. Ironically went to the little bar in Clerkenwell where we had had our first date.
Drank the same cocktails.
I couldn't stop crying, I couldn't help myself. "I'm sorry, I don't know why I'm crying, I'm not sad."
He didn't want it. He didn't want me.
"I love you to pieces Theo."
"I love you too."
"I just want to make you happy. I'd do anything to make you happy. Why won't you let me in? I'd love to meet the girl who would love you as much as me. You know she doesn't exist. You know this is your loss don't you."

He hugged me tight and kissed me as I left him for the final time. The following night, at my leaving drinks with other people from work, I asked him for the final time. He didn't want me. He didn't even want to have sex with him. He didn't want me. He got angry and shouted at me. "You don't know what makes me happy!" "Because you won't tell me!"

He ran across the road, jumped in a taxi and left me, tears streaming down my face. My phone had run out of battery, so, convinced that he would return to me, I put my final pennies into a phone box and called him. He hung up on me.

When I got home I found he had posted this link on his facebook: http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2011/04/18/110418fa_fact_franzen?currentPage=all
and the words: At the time, I’d made a decision not to deal with the hideous suicide of someone I’d loved so much but instead to take refuge in anger and work.
I was certain that this reinforced my long-held belief that he couldn't let me in because of some deep-seated emotional pain that he had. So I collected together select extracts from this blog and emailed them to him saying:
Hey hun

Sorry again about everything, I know I’ve been painful. I got over it before so I should have just left it!

Anyway, have a read of what I’ve attached, I thought it might be helpful and that you might relate to some of it.

Despite what I may have said before you know you can always reach out to me. If you do ever just need a friend then I can be that and will be there for you.
xxx


I wanted him to know that I could understand whatever pain he was feeling. I wanted him to know that he could let me in.

Of course he didn't reply and I sent him a final email:
I'm just going to write what I wanted to say and save time: (I mean how much damage is one more message going to do!)

1. I have a ridiculous desire to look after others. I was convinced that there was a sadness in you that you were suppressing and that you always pushed me away because of it (now of course I get it was because you just didn't like me, duh!).
Maybe I handled it the wrong way but I thought that if you could relate to anything I had written it would help you relate to your own emotions. I desperately wanted to help you find a way to be happy that I completely ignored whether you wanted my help or not. And perhaps I had convinced myself that you were unhappy when you were not too.

2. Because I had failed so much in the last few weeks, I didn't want to believe my love for you had failed too. This was purely selfish. I know I should have left it but I really didn't want to lose you.

I was stupid, I know I caused you so much unnecessary anger because of it. If I got it completely wrong that you were sad and unhappy I'm sorry, and I'm really sorry for being so full on.

If you want to be friends, great, but if you don't that's fine too. I just wanted to say sorry and wanted you to know x


The pain I feel in losing Theo is nothing like the pain I felt in losing Alex. I never loved Theo - he would never let me close enough for that. Theo never loved me, never doted on me, never gave me time or affection.
I'm actually not losing anything other than a guy who destroyed my self esteem, made me cry, made me feel worthless and ignored me when I needed a shoulder to lean on.
THIS IS A GOOD LOSS.

I spoke to my therapist about Theo for the first time this week. She asked me to sum him up in three words:
"Unreliable. Difficult. Closed."
As I said them it dawned on me. I didn't want a relationship with that person - who would? But I had subconsciously chosen to try and love him for those reasons.
"You need to get out of the cycle of choosing men who you know it won't work out with," she said. "You're so used to people leaving that you choose men you know are going to leave or treat you badly. You have to get over the belief that you can change them or help them get better."
She was right. Theo was the opposite of what you would want in a boyfriend. And that's why I wanted him. If he had been loving and doting and showered me with gifts and love, I would have hated it. I would have thought myself not worthy. I would have thought he was wasting his time. I would have thought I could never give him what he wanted and deserved back.

As it was, I was the loving and doting one. And he was the one who hated it and told me to find someone who deserved it.



How do I feel about this whole thing? I don't want to feel anything anymore. I am done thinking and writing about him.