You’d be in better shape if you used ‘bitch’ or ‘stupid’ (basically anything except the F- word). It’s kinda like the equivalent of telling a guy is dick is tiny, or his premature ejaculation issues are a pain. I don’t think I’d ever truly forgive you for that. It was abuse. Albeit verbal, but still abuse. If only you knew what I went through to get to where I am today. I could starve and fit into a size zero (hey I did it once before.), but it might be more sensible for you to steal one of your friends’ skinny partners. Brains not included.
No matter how many times you tell me I’m beautiful, I realise - I don’t believe you. I’ve been told so before, and I never had any problems accepting that compliment. So yeah, it’s just you.

I feel taken for granted.

What would it take to get you to see: I don’t want Chanel bags or Prada shoes, or any of those little superficial things your ex-es might have pined after. I’m not a money-grabbing whore.

All I want is a little appreciation. A ‘thank you’ more often, a cupcake waiting for me at home, actual keys to your place (I shouldn’t have to ASK), the little things.

I don’t need you to tell your friends how great I am. I want you to show ME what you appreciate about me. TELL ME, let me know. I still remember that first meet-up with your friends, and your text to me: ‘You better come, I told them you were coming already.’ It didn’t spell of affection, of love. It was like your friends were more important that how I felt. There was no thank you that I’d rushed from a conference to Clarke Quay. You spent the evening chatting with a friend, and I sat. Not a single check on me. And when they went dancing, we sat. Quiet. It was like I was a stranger, and you had nothing to say to me.

We have nothing in common - is that really it?

When you went to Myanmar. You stuffed a letter in my hand and told me to mail it with a tone of importance. Your goodbye was swift, dripping with hurry, lacking in sincerity. I felt like a child being told to do an errand. And then your last text to me that day was, ‘You didn’t get me an aisle seat. *insert unhappy face*’

You are self-centered. I tell you this because I’m one of the few who actually care to tell you the truth. Whether you choose to believe it, is entirely your call.

I don’t know if I want this anymore. 

Yesterday (Saturday) I finished work at 5pm. Was supposed to head over to his place to spend the evening together and such, but received a message from him at 4.45pm or so to say that he’d forgotten he was supposed to go to a ballet with a female ex-colleague ‘cos another male ex-colleague had bailed earlier. He apologised, and I was okay with it. Of course at such late notice, it was hard to make plans with others. I was feeling fine, ‘cos a bit of extra time to my own can never hurt. 

The day went downhill from there. Prior to the message, I had JUST texted my dad to say I didn’t need a lift (he was at a relative’s place nearby) home, ‘cos I was going to Timothee’s place and that’s out of the way. Hence the taxi wait. It drizzled and rained and I had no umbrella and there were no taxis. This ensued for 30 minutes until my dear dad decided to come back to get me anyhow.

And then back at home, I was expecting a text or two from him updating me on what he was doing or just checking up on me (reasonable request I think, because it was him who left me dangling on a Sat night). But no, no word. I know people would say, ‘But you could have messaged him first.’ I know I could. But why should I? I wasn’t the one who bailed on my other half last minute. Even if I did, my point is that I would gave messaged here and there to make sure my other half was okay with spending an unintended Saturday evening on her own.

First text came in at 10pm, which said ‘This is a super nice ballet!!! 1 more act to go *insert smoochy face*’ At that point, all sorts of feelings of resentment arose. Jealousy at him I guess. Jealous that he was having a good time, and didn’t have the basic courtesy to ask how I was. Slightly angry too I guess that I’ve never been taken to a ballet, theatre production etc by him. I mean, I know in this case, someone else had offered him the ticket. My point is that we’ve never had a similar experience together, even though he did mention we would at the start of the relationship. 

But anyway. I know I sounded grumpy when we were communicating later. Ahhhh the awkward moment that arises when someone asks you, ‘What’s wrong?’ And the problem is actually them.

I just can’t wait to go back to Melbourne, leave everyone in one world behind for a little bit to indulge myself in the company of my 2nd home. about a month and a half more, hang in there me…

So today I confessed that I’d previously accidentally thrown 2 of T’s teaspoons down the chute. I laughed about it ‘cos I didn’t think they cost that much. It’s not like I intentionally hurled them down the chute to listen to the comforting clunking noise they made as they hurtled down 9 stories. Half the time, I’m clearing takeaway containers and washing cups and bowls and plates, and somewhere in that equation I realise I’m missing a piece of cutlery, that at said point of realisation, was dying a premature death along with the takeaway carton. 

I didn’t mean to laugh. If I’d know they cost more than my dinner, I wouldn’t have laughed, but I did. But I thought all was good. And so I bustled, clearing ice cream wrappers, washing the odd pint mug, enquiring whether the very-empty carton of peach cordial sitting on the table should be tossed out. 

‘No you’re not to throw anything in the house ever again.’

The words came out rather innocuously, no malice in the tone, but somehow I felt that familiar lump in my throat. I know I’ve been careless, but I’m now taking measures to avoid such carelessness by asking before tossing. Does it not occur to people that I don’t clear things for my own entertainment? That I’m just trying to increase the amount of livable space to make you, to make US more comfortable. But no, I understand now it’s not ‘us’. It will never truly be my space, and he is right, I shouldn’t interfere. 

Maybe I’m over-reacting, but my over-reaction stems from deeper, more sinister feelings. I wash, I clear - but all these go more or less unnoticed, unless I fling a really really expensive spoon I probably couldn’t afford with a day’s pay down the chute. 

Oh well.

So my shrink said to write down everything that upsets me. I guess writing everything down’s a lot less scary than bursting into tears (at least for the people around me).

On the weekend, went along with T to a friend’s gathering. Boyfriends/husbands/anyone with a penis left to play poker, and left the women (and one male(?) who unabashedly snuck my cigarettes as the night wore on) to our own devices, we chatted, laughed, me being slightly inebriated from alcohol previously consumed at dinner. Having worked till 6ish that Saturday, I got progressively more and more sleepy, with the occasional wave of nausea one gets having imbibed a cocktail of miscellaneous alcohol beverages.

Could in part have been tiredness clawing away at me, I honestly can’t say. But as I watched the other girls get the occasional drop-bys-and-checks by their significant others, I couldn’t help but feel a deep-seated conflagration of sadness, mixed with equal parts anger, at my personal situation. As I saw one of the girls receive a gentle caress on the shoulder, the other a reassuring peck on the forehead, I couldn’t help but feel a tinge of jealousy at the affection they received. 

In past with ex-partners, I’ve always appreciated the occasional gentle squeeze of the hand, or a palm resting gingerly on my knee, as I attempt to fit into a new social group. It’s not a pure call for affection per se, it’s just reassuring to receive a gesture that says, ‘It’s okay, I’m here. You’re doing okay (even when I’m not).’ 

It made me feel deserted (slightly dramatic a word, but that’s just how I felt, and I don’t think I have to mince my words in my personal journal). Almost like I’m you know, good for certain situations (mainly, a thing to cuddle at home) but I’m second seed to his friends. 

He thinks I don’t like his friends. I do. I hesitate going out in big groups, because the feelings that ensue from the aforementioned happening again and again are sometimes too depressing for me to handle. I can laugh, I can smile, but inside I’m disappointed. I feel so phony, the exact sorta person Holden Caulfield would frown upon, but I can’t help it. But I feel so strange telling him how I really feel, because subsequently I’m afraid every question of, ‘Are you ok?’ or reassuring hands-on-shoulders aren’t born from genuine concern, but from obligation. And if that’s the case, I’d rather not have it at all. 

Sincerely, 

D