Jilted (A Recollection)

I got over him last January [2018]. I was young and foolish when I first met him. He should be 37 now, almost a decade older than I am. It would not have taken me more than a year to move on if he had given me closure, provided an answer as to why things ended the way they did.

The months leading up to our separation, I was aware that something was different about him. He was emotionally distant and whenever I attempted to engage him in conversation, he’d reply in monosyllables. Even an “ILY” that was spoken to presumably assuage any uncertainties of mine sounded hollow and insincere. Naturally, as his significant other, I yearned for his affection but I felt neglected. He was a researcher who usually worked for extended hours so I tried to dismiss our lack of communication and intimacy due to stress and fatigue.

Then it finally happened: the man I loved decided to throw me out of his life like I were yesterday’s garbage — subsequently flinging my self-esteem straight to the bottom of a trashcan. Emotionally unhinged, my body shook uncontrollably to my heaving sobs as I broke down alone in my room. I was dumbstruck, thinking, How could this happen, and why? But… (omitting the details) I had to accept the undesirable situation for what it was, and however much it hurt, I let him go.

Afterwards… I felt utterly worthless. I thought I was disposable. Devastated and heartbroken, I had never been so fragile and unbearably lonely. I wasted time crying over a man’s act of cowardice — a man who had taken the easy way out leaving me to wonder what exactly went wrong between us. My life had remained stagnant while I dwelled on unanswered questions. Maybe I didn’t possess the ideal attributes that’s generally expected from a wife/mother in accordance to his country’s cultural standards. Or maybe, maybe, maybe…

In retrospect we were basically incompatible. And he wanted children whereas I’m an anti-natalist; but no matter how inherently selfish reproduction is, I would’ve gotten pregnant and given birth to his offspring. I suppose physical attraction was one of the main reasons we stayed together as long as we did — I’ll add that my love for him was far beyond shallow — and because of our differences he deserved better than what I had to offer. Neither of us were perfect but I don’t know if he was even cognizant of his own shortcomings. Regardless, I loved him, I truly did. He had been my anchor in turbulent storms, keeping me safe and sane until the circumambient waves of despair receded. I loved him for everything that I thought he was, for the man he had sworn to be (yet lied). Only the passage of time ameliorated the pain of being jilted and the fragments of my broken heart eventually became a mosaic.

Nowadays I can’t be bothered to prioritize dating in hopes of meeting someone who would be willing to accept me at my worst and support me throughout the cycles of major depression in addition to the unpredictable recurrences of restricting type anorexia, not to mention that I can barely manage my mood swings. Well, these damaged goods are indefinitely off the market.

Sidenote: this isn’t my suicide story. Call it a vent post.