I’ve taken to listening to James Arthur’s You Deserve Better. It makes me sad and angry at the same time and it speaks to me: he was what I wanted but not what I need, and I deserve better. Not in a “I am so wonderful and I must have the best” kind of way, but the ordinary: everyone deserves a partner who cares for them. Maybe I’ve convinced myself that he didn’t and secretly he did, but frankly seeing me on Sunday evenings when he feels like it doesn’t feel like caring. Wanting total freedom of responsibility doesn’t sound like caring. Nor does blowing off all my social invites for other people. What a player. More fool I for being sucked into the lovebombing at the beginning, believing it would always be that way.
It’s like being in a car crash, taking a while to heal up from a broken arm, cringing from anything that reminds you of the accident. I hate it. I hate that I walk on the Southbank and think “that is the bench where I had to break up with him”. I fear future social interactions where I imagine another girl on his arm, me alone in the corner either weeping or numb.
I’ve taken the day off tomorrow just because I need some time out. I’ll vegetate, pamper myself and do some chores, because adulting.
I forgot to post this because I had cake and ramen.