I asked to see Edward before school started because my therapist knew I was going to self-destruct if I didn’t get closure. After knowing how things played out with Connor, he knew I couldn’t move on the way Edward and I left things. And he was right. The whole month of August and into early November was nothing but a shit show of epic proportions.
Irrational behavior escaped my body before logical responses could even form. I was a bottomless pit of need and affection. I couldn’t face reality. I couldn’t handle the fact that I lost him. I was in denial, total and complete denial. This couldn’t be the end. This isn’t how our story is supposed to end.
The next few months, I got progressively crazier trying to keep the secret, hold myself together, and some how hold onto him, too. I allowed my broken heart to down spiral into emotional overload and cloud my judgment.
My hormones were insane, I was fighting my depression, and I was on edge constantly. I felt like my brain and heart were being pulled in a million separate directions. I was in a state of constant malfunction and couldn’t process anything or think straight. The years of repressing emotion were finally catching up to me and I was bubbling over like a fucking volcano. By the end, I unraveled. I was grasping at straws, frantic and out of my damn mind. I was losing him quickly- and I knew it. The harder I tried to hold on, the faster he pulled away. I was hitting rock bottom. And it was only a matter of time.
September I was basically trying to see if I could ignite the spark again.
October is when I was realizing it was over but wasn’t ready to give up, so I was lashing out at him from a point of anger and hurt.
And November is when I self detonated, blew up, and ruined any chance of getting back together. On November 5th, I told Edward I needed a direct answer about me. I couldn’t hold on like this anymore. I knew the answer, but I had to hear him say it. I had to hear those words. I had to know that HE was the one giving up and that I wasn’t just walking away. I had to hear those words otherwise I wouldn’t have been able to stop.
Me: “Can you just tell me if you don’t want to hear from me again? Because I don’t just give up unless I have to.”
Me: “I’ll leave but you have to say it. “
E: “I mean you don’t have to but I’m not gunna develop feelings. So its up to you honestly.”
Me: “Why would I stay? So you can talk to me like I’m Paige and give me half assed responses?”
E: “It’s your life. I told you this what like 6 months ago?”
Throughout my life, I had been cheated on, physically abused, emotionally shattered, neglected, sexually molested, and endured a million other traumas, but nothing compared to Edward responding, “It’s your life. I told you this what 6 months ago?”. That day, my world crumbled. And I sank into an even darker depression. His words cut deeper than any I had ever heard over the years. It was like my very existence meant nothing. Like my absence was felt without any feelings of sadness. The way he worded his response felt like it didn’t matter if I was in or out of his life, as if I made no impact during our time together. No impression.
When I sent my last text to Edward, a special spot in hell opened up for me. Never in my life had I spoken with such malice or spewed such inhumane written poison. Clearly, my family taught me well. Of all the horrible things I have done and said to someone, the things I said to Edward take the cake. Who the fuck am I kidding? They don’t just take the cake- they take every bakery from here to Albuquerque.
Words lost their meaning. I had heard so many in such foul and degrading ways over the course of my life that I became desensitized to them at a very early age. I saw them as letters, linked together like little necklaces or paper dolls, each just a cute little mixture of straight and curved lines. But as I became immune to the impact of a word, I also forgot the power they had with others.
I think my desensitization plays a role in the way I speak now. As the simple word lost its impact, I relied on my inner artist to string words together in a creative, descriptive, and unique flow. The impact of my speech is delivered by my imagery and manipulated use of the English language.
Although, I’ve grown to love my quirky descriptive mind, I can’t help but wish I could feel words the way others do, in a more pure way. I wish I hadn’t been raised in such a volatile environment that I could respond and relate to others more easily.
Non-confrontational people usually do not know how to defend themselves, as they have not been in situations that require them to do so; thus, they lack the experience and a sharp tongue. But given my comebacks, it is obvious how often I’ve had to fight and defend myself. I feel like a soft pig-loving child, with the skillset of Angelina Jolie in Salt or The Smiths.
My text was so bad because I knew exactly how to hurt him and that’s what I did. That’s how fucked up I was. I targeted his insecurities like his body, his performance in bed, and his manhood. Everything negative thing I said to him was a lie. I had just broken. I wanted him to feel as much pain as he caused me. I raged psychological warfare on Edward, someone I knew didn’t deserve it and couldn’t handle my dark side, and actually took enjoyment in doing it. THAT is how sick, dark, and twisted I was. But I thought that was what you did when someone hurt you. Allllll I heard my whole life was, “If someone hurts you, you get them back 10x harder so they never fucking do it again.” So that’s what I was doing. But all of it, every bit… was a lie or psycho tactic.
- I SAID: He had a small penis.
- TRUTH: I’d put my hands on his hips as a way to slow him down for a moment so I could adjust to his size. The kid is well endowed.
- There were times when I had to count his thrusts in my head because I didn’t want to tap out and tell him he was too much at that angle. I thought it was embarrassing to ask him to take it easier on me so I never spoke up. I just took it and counted sets of 10 in my head.
- I loved riding him because I could control how deep he went without him knowing I was struggling. I could ride just the tip and twirl my hips around on it or I could let my body consume the full length of him.
- I’d constantly beg for it and also went ballistic when he told me some bitch called him small
- I SAID: The sex was bad and I faked it every time
- TRUTH: Felt like if Edward wasn’t choking me and degrading me in bed that he wasn’t into having sex with me. I thought good sex needed pain, roughing up, discomfort, etc. I thought the girl could only fake it and put on an act like a sex slave or porn star. I thought women were to serve men. In my particular case, I thought it was my job to get the guy off whatever the costs. I was so used to faking orgasms that I forgot how to have a real one when it came time. I fake moaned. I faked everything all to get the guy to relax more and open up. But with Edward, it was different. I didn’t want him to hit me or pound me until he left bruises on the inside of my thighs. I wanted gentle. I wanted him to be the first person I gave myself to. Gave my innocence to. Like a virginity redo. I wanted to take back what I mistakenly gave up years ago and give it to someone who I felt better deserved it.
- Feeling the pressure of him inside me, pushing farther into me, exploring me for everything I was worth, and burying himself in my depths was mind shattering. I was often worn out after sex with him. I never told him I took Advil before I saw him as again right after sex because I was embarrassed to talk a big game about sex and then fail to hold my own. But I just couldn’t. My body responded in ways to him that I never thought was possible. My body moved for him and gave up any resistance to fight an orgasm. He made me cum over and over and over and over, while I tossed my head back and curled my back.
- I found a message I typed out before he left for the summer, but was too afraid to send him. Me: “I’ve only really ever fucked or been fucked. Usually violently. But it’s never been something sweet or super intimate. Just angry hate sex. So. When you come home, if everything with us is okay again and we get back to normal… can you……. Um… *whispers* make love to me *covers face in sheer embarrassment*? Idk how to be that vulnerable and it would be a really really big deal for me so I’d want my first time to be with you. If you come back to me, I wanna let you all the way in to my heart with no guards up whatsoever. That’s my very last guard and I’ve never put it down before.”
- I SAID: He doesn’t listen
- TRUTH: Lie x 12e32324231.773
In addition to these colorful topics, I also mocked and belittled him, called him names, blamed, manipulated, and emasculated him. Why? I think because I knew I lost him and ran out of ways to get him back. I had tried everything but nothing was working. I was so hurt and in such a bad mental state that my mindset was kind of, “Fine. I’ll go, but Ill make sure he remembers me.” It deeply pained me that he spoke to me like someone he didn’t know and couldn’t even be warm, but why would he when I was a bipolar noodlehead constantly attacking him? Plus, he thought I was dating someone else this whole fucking time. At no point did I ever think just telling the truth was an option. I never knew I could be honest. All I knew was abusive love. I knew to manipulate, lie, etc. And lastly, I think I sent it out of pure jealousy. He had everything I didn’t. He was confident, happy, had a great life, great family, great friends. He was attractive, smart, and went to a great school. He was normal, not damaged, pure, and loved to travel. But I was a black hole with a scorned heart, trying to suck him into my darkness.
After I sent the text, I instantly regretted sending it. And he never spoke to me again.