Picture the scene:
For 25 years we were rubbing along quite happily.
I say that, but if I’m honest, the last 5 years or so were somewhat wobbly, to say the least.
When that morning came, in June 2016, I was both flabbergasted and immensely hurt.
When I woke up that day, you said that you were done with me. BUT you wanted me to stick around, pay into the kitty, do the chores, whilst you were going to shower me with disdain and disrespect (you still are).
It never got better after that.
But I tried, I really did. I had invested so much, I had loved you for such a long time.
It had never even crossed my mind that you would pretend I was worthless, hadn’t contributed, that I had just been an exchangeable part of the equation. Worse, that I had scrounged of you, abused your generosity.
For almost two years, I fought tooth and claw: I wasn’t quite ready to give you up.
In the beginning, many of my friends were as shocked and upset as I was.
Then: apathy by those I considered my allies.
Then: I took myself out of my home, left behind everything I had felt was “normal”: from my greengrocers to my osteopath, friends of 25 years standing, my GP, my Pilates group, my dentist, all those little things that, combined, make a life.
It hurt like hell, and yet I am glad I went. I am slowly picking up the pieces of myself, remembering who I am, starting afresh.
I am writing this from a safe distance.
So long. You were good to me. And then you weren’t. ©
Péa E., Germany
First published June 2018
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