I had a lot of drafts saved on this platform over the past 3 years. They’re gone now. Heck, even this one may not make it.
This week has been strange – but oddly typical. A dinner party one day, helping a friend deal with potential death at the same time. Shirking my responsibilities. Can’t keep my own head on straight. An anxiety attack in the shower. Anxiously washing my hair. Some people know these parts of me, most do not. They shy away from those aspects. “It’s all too crazy – you’ve got to get a grip, no one normal likes that sort of thing”.
I remember breaking up with the ex. His family going on and on about a friend of theirs who had mental health issues and needed a lot of help to raise her children. I just stared at them. They never offered help. They never tried. They just berated her in her lack of presence. She had no chance to defend herself. Yet this man supposedly loved me, supposedly wanted children with me, supposedly “understood” that I have “issues” that are difficult to manage… but would never take even a second in a month to listen.
I remember the night I kicked him out. Forever. It was dramatic. As were many of our arguments. I didn’t feel safe around him anymore. Anytime he was around me, it had to be about sex. His hands all over me when I said no, sternly, forcefully, pushed him off. He was hurt by it, sure, but I was hurt more because he didn’t want me – he wanted a body. Not my mind. He didn’t want to know me. He wanted a figure. Something he could control. They always do, don’t they? “You women are so emotional – it clouds your judgement” – fairly certain my emotions made way to great clarity that night. Was it a setup? To breakup? No. That was never the intention. A room, in a city, with things to do to celebrate the visa that I had worked so hard to get. He did his part, for sure, but his part involved barely lifting a finger.
The breakup is much worse for me. My immigration status thrown out. My life plans completely thrown out. I’ve been off-kilter ever since. He just gets to sit around with his friends and do what he always does. Maybe he mourned. Maybe not. Honestly, I’m not sure I actually care. I was more upset about my inability to live in Sweden to be honest. I think my ability to care stopped six months before the breakup when I realised he had no respect for me. It was not only that he had no idea what I studied, but he was actively put off by the subject. If I brought it up, there was an argument about how his views must be right and mine must be wrong, how dare I be so overeducated, to think I deserved so much more, to be better than him in any way. He, like a handful of others I’ve met, had to cut me down. Make sure I knew I was beneath him.
There haven’t been many people like that thankfully. But there have been a few of these extraordinarily demeaning people in my life. I learned to cut them out after the first one. This is the third.
My trust in people dwindles by the second, though. How could I possibly be that bad at judging character? My therapist thinks I go for the Devil I know… which does make sense. This all weighs heavily in my mind even though it’s been a few months. In the midst of four people close to me who are dying, I have become self-absorbed, reclusive, yet negligent. It’s all the same day to me. Stretching infinitely into the future and the past. I can hardly tell the difference, spending so much time alone.