Those of you who read my blog regularly, or at least as regularly as I bother to put anything on it, have probably gathered I can be a bit blunt. Sometimes I just need to say something, whether that be to a friend, or a professional, or here into cyberspace, just to get it off my chest. Just to air it. See how it sounds, or how it looks written down. How it reads back. I guess I’m beyond the stage of being massively concerned about judgement or trolls. If people don’t like me, that’s life. If they want to judge my life, so be it, I know only too well how perfectly imperfect I am.

So bear with me. I need to say something.

I am missing Matt.

Yes, I know. I’m an idiot. I’m missing the guy who messed me up so bad I couldn’t walk straight for a week. The bastard who left me battered and bruised and utterly mashed in the head. The one who wasn’t even my boyfriend, just a friend with occasional benefits, who openly admitted, “Angel, I don’t love you, I don’t have feelings for you, I just enjoy fucking you”. Him. I miss him so bad my heart feels like it’s being ripped from my chest.

Because the truth is, we are both us screwed up as each other. We should never in a million years have ended up together; we were the worse possible concoction of toxic elements imaginable, who ended up in the same putrid cauldron (also known as the mental health services).

I still want him to love me. I still want to be the one who holds him when the insecurities of the past rock his foundations. Even though I know he would never have the emotional capacity to reciprocate when I flounder. I still want him to realise what a good woman he passed up. Even though I knew that was never likely to happen and unlikelier still since I reported him to the police.

I saw him yesterday, walking past the window of the room I was in. I immediately had that kicked-in-the-guts feeling again. I was totally rigid for that moment, praying he wouldn’t see me. He didn’t. I had to concentrate hard on breathing, just to cope with the anxiety I felt. The same man who makes me sick to the stomach also gives me butterflies and sets my heart racing. I think that probably makes me as sick and as depraved as him.

All my relationships have been crap. Probably because of what I bring to them, my past experiences, my shocking childhood and teen years, my Bipolar disorder and BPD traits, my fears, my anxieties. I taint everything I touch. My present is the sum of my past and my imperfections. I am broken, sullied, used. Fallen.

Angel 👼🏼