This is a post of outburst, as I wrote yesterday I closed a two-year love cohabitation in these days, my mood is not the best, the first day was a limbo, I worked as an automaton, my smile was so forced I thought my jaw was broken.
And yet I've already been there, it's not the first one that someone leaves me. I had hoped it would be the last, but obviously destined to volutes that he was not the last lap.
Now I feel in pieces, I compulsively control the phone waiting for a message that will not arrive, despite the problems and the moments where it has not respected me, only those beautiful ones flash in the head.
But I can write those moments, no, so as to remind them.
When he did not come back at night because he was too drunk to call and drive, which was repeated at other times and I was waiting him , scared, worried. Then they removed his license.
The last times when I was at work and he going out to party with his best friend, both forty years old, ended up in police headquarters because to make a girl showed the backside to a policeman.
When he did not answer the phone, leaving me one or two hours or more waiting for him alone in front of a bar or when he was too far away he would take me back home to walk to his friend and I would walk around town halfway by myself.
The unpaid bills, every time he asked me for the money for the nonsense, the three hundred euros lent and never rendered for used for the new phone that he then forgot in a bar one evening, the umpteenth that had raised his elbow.
When he invited his ex for his birthday knowing I could not see her.
Every time he has not been heard for whole days. When they came to look for him for a gruff and he shut himself up in the house and pretended not to be there, I saw a cowardly side of him that I wanted to ignore, mistaking him for mere weakness.
When I was tired for ten hours of work and he called me boring because I just wanted to put on a sofa watching the TV series. When he pretended everything was fine, we made love for hours and cooked together and then he started with "In bed you're big but it's the only place where you're not boring and I do not know if I love you anymore". Making me suddenly feel dirty, wrong, something indefinite, a lump of pain.
And despite everything I did not see, I did not want to see and write it helps me, it makes me think, but that I was blind.
Yet I still suffer. I'm afraid to go home (My Home) and see that he has taken away all his things and being assailed by memories, of those moments where I thought he loved me.
I'm afraid of the bomb of memories, of the caress of loneliness to return and find the empty house, I'm afraid of not being able to trust someone again, not to recover.
And yet I've already been there, everything passes but in the first moments it seems to me that without him there is no air.
I had deluded myself to be loved and safe and suddenly I find myself alone and scattered, I feel a lost chick, adrift and too thin, with the stomach closed for days by the fist that of evil that has inside, still there between the breastbone and the heart, which I do not even know what form it has.
And I hear the "boring" in my head because I watch too many TV series, and I think that in four days I have holidays and I will do one of those TV series for wintering, seasoned with beer, junk and tears. Obvious.
Because I'm so, boring, quiet, I'm the one who immediately pays the bills, which is enough to make an aperitif occasionally for leisure or an exit to the pub, I'm the one who goes out of work tired to put home (now to decorate, I'll buy the lights that sound, I've always wanted them but he hated Christmas), I'm the one that if it's in love it's done in four, in eight in ten and then it goes into a thousand pieces. I'm a stupid , who is here to ask what I did wrong? What do I have wrong? Why I could not make me love?
Images taken from www.pixabay.com