The last few days some fucked up realisation keeps hitting me like a tonne of bricks.
I wake up alone in my bed, in a share house, in a rental. I have this room and that’s it.
The first thing that hits my mind is, “you’re getting a divorce” and it’s like a sudden cloud of doom cascades upon my entire mood.
Then another person tells you they’ve got “happy news to share” and part of me wants that happy news to be something as simple as “I’ve decided to get a divorce too”, as selfish as that is.
But of course the happy news is always something like, “we’re pregnant” or “we’ve bought a house” or “we’re engaged” and I’m set back ten years to the tears that fell then for the same reasons they are falling now.
I realize it’s a shitty thing to want their happiness to be something that actually validates my backwards situation. But the only way I feel like I could go further backwards is living with my parents again.
And it hits me harder when I realize the person I’m seeing and seemingly dedicating all my spare thoughts and time to, will never be someone who ends up choosing me.
Instead I’m back to romanticising sex, leading myself on to heartbreak and forcing my heart to battle with my head constantly. It’s so fucking anti feminist that my heart wants to fall in love and be swept off my feet. My head constantly says “no, be single for a year… find yourself again” but fuck it’s been two, maybe three months, and I’m already doubting every decision and choice I make on a daily basis.
I question what others must think of me. I was the first in my family to get married, the first to fall pregnant and lose it several times over and the first to get divorced. Look at me fucking go. How proud my father must be of me. My mother would probably simply say, “no surprises there”.
And I find it bizarre that I’m meant to be ok with this, that everyone tells me I’m so strong. That I made the right choice.
Because right now, it seems like I’m the problem.
