The pain comes in passing. Waves wash over me and I remember things like the shape of a nose or the hint of a smirk. I remember the feeling of sitting in the theatre chair. That harsh type of material, the one that makes you itch your legs. I remember feeling incredibly alone in the chatter of everyone else. I remember the pinch of embarrassment and the unjust feeling that ill never be able to track down everyone who thinks they know something and set them straight. Especially not him. I want to kick and scream about how unfair it all was. about how awful the publicity of it made me feel. of how just before he opened his mouth I knew it was coming and just after he did I couldn't believe my ears. You gotta hand it to him, he put on quite a performance. jawdropping. How I curled up on each roommate's bed to ask them why it had happened as if they'd know and seeing their faces exhausted by sheer sadness that stung the rooms I entered.
Asking his (1) friend what had happened and feeling worse because I'd forgotten the inherent lack of compassion that rests in men's hearts. The deep misunderstanding of justice and emotions and the power of simple acknowledgment of mistakes and pain. I remember this pain once a month when I log on to my separate Instagram account, the one that doesn't have him blocked, so I can update myself on his life. Maybe I do this out of spite or curiosity but I think I mostly do it because I still care where he's at. I still feel a connection to him because that period of my life was so important and he was in it almost every day. And it's always a deep ache of regret. It always comes with the spilling emotions of the unknown. The long-lost questions I never got answers to. The reopening of pandora's box but all that's in it are wounds of warm memories and harsh stabbing reminders that once someone felt so uncertain about me they decided to make it public. They felt it was art. They felt I was something I wasn't. Something I could never be.
And he probably isn't reading this but if he is he's probably thinking that that's not how he feels about me. That he still respects me and thinks I'm a good person but I want him to know that that is complete and utter horseshit! That he may think and feel that but I'd like to disagree. That if he had a decent enough heart he would bow down in shame. or at least crouch in defeat. If he had a hint of conscience he'd realize he needs to play the character of the villain because his actions said so. That his cool-calm-collected-timothy-chalamet- from-ladybird act isn't fooling anyone. That there is vileness in his disregard. That's what I want. I know it's silly to want that. To want an apology. To want him a little bit dead after 5 months. I know that won't make a difference in the way that I heal, if anything it will prolong the damage. But I can't think of anything else I really want more than to kick and scream at him until he feels utterly pathetic. Or just to kick and scream at someone and have it mean something. Until he feels a hint of how I felt that morning. Until remorse floods his nervous system and he crumbles under the weight of inferiority.
I remember coming back from the embassy in such a foul mood. Making a fool of myself and saying I didn't give one shit about him but blabbering on: actions insisting that I did. I want revenge. I want a public announcement written in the sky that he made a terrible mistake and he should probably take a couple of years in solitude to redeem himself. I want him eternal sunshine of a spotless mind-ed from my brain.
I want to start a website that sends a monthly newsletter to every woman in the GTA saying "Beware of this man!" I want him to never get pussy ever again because he doesn't deserve it. I want to make a film about all this and I want to feel indifferent to him but today is not that day. I want suffering and justice and for everyone to know he never made me come and that he never truly knew me, or cared to stay and find out.
Yes, there was good. Yes I had my own faults. But trying counts for something. And cruelty does not. Thinking and planning and sensitivity count. Caring conversations count. well written letters count. Poorly written letters do not count. Empty apologies do not count. Eye contact and at least a nod in my direction counts. In the last 5 months of slander I've been trying to work through the 3-month relationship. My first ever. Red flags galore. Like him saying sex shouldn't be romantic. Like the lack of trust or intimacy. Like him saying his best skill was "manipulation. But the biggest red flag I think was my great want to be loved. In a way that built me up instead of gleaning the remains. In a way that I thought could be given by someone else. In a way that rested in the hands of some man??? And my problem is that I keep thinking I'm writing to him! Like he'll read this when he hasn't read my writing in months. When will I learn? The kicking and screaming are for me. The anger and justice is my need, not the duty of the world. His needs have long since been swept up by the current, yet I can see the traces of soft sadness still in the sands. I still care too deeply. About him, about everyone in that theatre. About the pathetic way people look at me when I inevitably bring up the story and feel a renewed sense of pain. About the embarrassing notion that I let his treatment go on for 2 months too long. And I laugh to make it seem cheekily bitter but it's just a clear look into the bloody rubble I've yet to restore.
Bit by bit I pick up shattered little pieces. Someone has dropped a glass. They sweep it all up but each day there will be another shard and another that someone just didn't get. These pieces will be sharp and they will be crushed. If you aren't careful they will cut you. But in the rare hour of 8 am, when the sun shines through the window, they may twinkle and shine, like glitter. And you might remember how much you love glassware and how much you love talking to inanimate objects and how lovable you yourself are. and you won't forget about the glass that shattered, and there might be a deep ache of sorrow but somewhere in yourself, you'll know that it isn't the end of the world. That you can always buy more glasses and you can always pick up more pieces. Mistakes are made and glasses are broken and women get angry and that's the way of life. All of these things are much stronger than you think. And we are all the better for it.
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