Eight years ago I made a mistake in my life. I befriended a girl at university called Emma. I shared myself with her, helped her and supported her when she was down - stood by her and held things together when she needed the support of a friend, and the morning after pill (not that I was responsible!). In the second year of university we found shared accomodation together - with three other girls.
I made some mistakes. Some big mistakes. I had found another group of friends, and I turned my back on Emma. By the time I realised what I had done, she had cut me off - excised me from her life. It didn't matter how much I tried to get through to her - I was no longer welcome.
It hurt a lot. I begged, I pleaded, I cursed - but I couldn't walk away. I stayed in the flat and my friendship for Emma eventually turned into hatred. At the time I could see nothing else. She had treated me with contempt, and the only way to cope with my feelings was to be hateful towards her.
Finally the academic year came to an end, and I packed up my things into storage and went back to the Isle of Man for the summer.
That summer, and the following six months, were some of the hardest times in my life. The anger and hatred was left with nowhere to go but inwards. I don't know why, but I cut my arms a few times. Nothing serious - although some would say that any self-harm is indication of a serious mental problem - but I still have a scar to this day. When I returned to university in September, I loathed myself. I would hide my fear and loathing from people, I would put on a mask and pretend to be happy - but the slightest little knock and I would plummet into feelings of self-hatred.
Eventually, that story had a happy ending. I opened up to a GP and he prescribed Prozac. My feelings of self-hatred gradually waned - along with my sex-drive, but I could deal with the side-effects. Finally, I went on a University organised trip to New York and the feelings vanished with a newfound joy for life, and I stopped taking the drugs.
I thought I had learned my lesson. I thought I had learned to be wary of people once in a while. I thought I was a better judge of character for the experience. I never cleared things up with Emma - we saw things from different sides of a chasm, and she had inevitably seen the best and worst in me. But I thought I would never do it again.
Two weeks ago, John, my beloved bear, the light that has given me a reason to live for the past difficult eighteen months turned his back on me and switched off his love for me. In two weeks of begging, screaming, despair and falling apart, I have found that the man I have given five and a half years of my life to has often had doubts about the relationship, but has never felt able to open up to me. He has told me that the level to which I love him scares him, and that all he can do now is leave me.
He has seen the worst of me now, and I am sure I have pushed him away even further. I have tried to hold on to him for the most stupid reasons, but all I am left with is terror. I am terrified of being by myself - of what I will become, and the level to which I am now turning all my love in on itself. Turning it into something malign - a tool to keep myself alive, but also to hurt myself and him.
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