Secret Story No.12

This is the next installment in our anonymous Secret Stories series.

My story starts, really, about four years ago, when I was sixteen. Or, really, the experiences that I’m going through now were properly seeded at that time, but my whole life has really been leading towards this point.

I was bullied for years in school, felt like a bad person and an ugly girl, and had an eating disorder (which I only realised later) from when I was about twelve to when I was seventeen or so. I still use food to punish myself sometimes, so I don’t let myself think about it. But that’s not the point, although it does explain some of my actions.

When I was about sixteen I had a traumatising experience that I never really accepted; I was away from home and had some inappropriate contact forced on me – not that I was raped or anything, but this was my first experience of sexuality, and needless to say it was damaging. On top of a very rocky relationship with my father and a destructive relationship with my first boyfriend, it shaped my ideas of men to be fairly unhealthy and damaging ones. Then I met Sam.

I met him when I had just broken up with my previous boyfriend, who emotionally manipulated me the whole year we were together and tried to for a long time after. For the first couple of months, Sam was everything I could have hoped for: funny, intelligent, generous, loving. I can’t really pinpoint the date that it started to change, but I still see him as that affectionate boy even now.

Sam started to get really impatient with me when we had been together about six months; there was some trouble with friends of mine who were bitching about me to him behind my back, and instead of questioning him about why they thought it was okay to do it, I abandoned my friends (though they were never very supportive or inclusive to begin with).

I began to feel like an outsider, and the depression I had been suffering from for years began to get worse and worse. Sam used it as a tool to manipulate me with; my fear that he would leave me, and that I would be alone, was so obvious that he knew I would do whatever he wanted.

I think on a level he enjoyed making me suffer. He must have some insecurity issues of his own, I understand now, but at the time I just felt guilty and inadequate. He was very close friends with a girl he knew from college and would often tell me, “If you weren’t so great I’d break up with you to go out with Sadhbh.”

All in all, it was a period of chronic insecurity and instability on my part, and when we eventually did break up (after him asking me to move in with him) I was heartbroken and could barely function. I stopped eating, leaving the house, socialising. It got worse when I found out he had been cheating on me with Sadhbh before we broke up, and that they were together afterward. For months he lied to me about his relationship with her, and to her about his relationship with me, and would keep getting with the pair of us while we both continued to love him unconditionally.

I haven’t the faintest idea what motivated him other than sincere confusion, or insecurity, but both of us girls ended up the worse for it, feeling inadequate and bitter. I don’t think he really cared about the damage he caused by comparing us to each other, or by telling me it was my fault we’d broken up because I was depressed, or by other acts of needless cruelty and blatant indifference to both of our emotions; although he’s changed a lot since then. I tried to leave it behind, and this is where it gets tricky.

Instead of becoming a healthy, fully-functional adult, I threw myself into college and work, got drunk whenever the opportunity arose, and slept with near strangers. I tried to have a relationship with someone else once or twice, but in the back of my mind ran the refrain, “If you go out with (blank), you can’t go out with Sam, and Sadhbh will have him, and he’ll forget about you,” on top of my fear that any relationship will inevitably end in pain and anguish.

Most recently, I met an amazing guy who I do really care about, who I love despite not being in love with him, and I freaked out the same as usual. I cheated on him with Sam, and then with another person who I’ve known for a long time. I broke it off with him by explaining what is really the truth about my fear of relationships. He doesn’t know about the cheating, and I hope he never finds out, because he thinks the reason we broke up is that he isn’t good enough for me.

He blames himself and I’m worried he’ll get depressed about it (he has a history of it) and feel miserable, and knowing that I was with someone else could only make it worse. He won’t talk to me now. I want to apologise to him, and to the younger, more innocent version of myself for allowing myself to become so desensitised and cruel. I can’t tell him what happened because it’s all over now, and it would cause him such needless hurt, but selfishly I suppose I want to get it off my chest, because I feel so guilty and sad for the person I’ve become, so here it is.

Secret Story No.7

This is the next installment in our anonymous Secret Stories series.
Just a note to anyone who has submitted a piece, I have a backlog right now, and because I’m only featuring two a week, it may take a few weeks for some of your pieces to be featured, so don’t think I’m not using them or have forgotten about them!
To submit your own Secret Story, click HERE

Ok. The person this is to (my best friend) only knows a small part of what I’m about to confess…
So sometime around autumn last year, I went out with my best friend ‘L’, her boyfriend ‘T’ and her other best friend ‘P’. We went to see a film and generally frolicked about. It was fun and I enjoyed myself as I usually do. However, when I got home, ten minutes into a conversation on MSN with L, she then said something that I will never forget:

‘I’m uncomfortable with the way you touch T’

I sat there frozen in shock, unblinking, unable to believe what my eyes were telling me. I frantically thought back to how I touched him, and the most I could recall was pinching him hard when he tried to joke slap me in the cinema.
A long time after this incident, L informed me that I had stroked him arm at one point, but what she forgot was that I joke punched him straight after.

Anyway, I a few minutes later of sitting absolutely still, I blinked and tried to take a deep breath, only to be choked by a rising sob from inside my chest. My fingers shook as I typed out a response. I was so confused.
What was she accusing me of?
Rhetorical question.
I knew what she was trying to say. Unspoken words: she didn’t trust me.

That hurt.
It hurt so, much.
I grinned absurdly as tears ran down my face, my heart hurting, and carried on with my conversation with L.
‘Glad that’s all sorted (:’ she said.
The huge, teeth-showing grin upon my face was quite fake. I just sat there, silently crying with that grin on my face.

And for the next few months, I carried on grinning (metaphorically).
But I was pretending. The love I had for her as my best friend was slowly diminishing. Any little stupid thing she’d say, any slow moment, anything I found annoying about her helped let my anger at her grow. Then sometime around February it had got seriously bad.
I was in a very low mood for about a month. Looking back now, I honestly think that I was depressed. I had been having problems breathing; no matter how deep the breath I took, I still found myself short of air. I went around almost panting for quite some time. There was also my hatred of people in general. I despised being around anyone, especially L. At lunchtimes I would sit quietly in a corner reading and listening to music. This didn’t go unnoticed, as usually I’m jumping around, singing, shouting, laughing and getting into trouble with the rest of my friends. I was also constantly tired. I could go to bed at 7pm and wake up at 6.30am and it would be like I had only had an hours sleep. I could go to bed at 12pm and wake up at 6.20am and it would be like I had only had an hours sleep. It made no difference what time I went to bed or got up at. I was always deathly tired. I was constantly falling asleep in lessons, which did not help at all. Part of this tiredness had to do with my waking up constantly during the night and my inability to go back to sleep once it had happened.
At that horrible part of my life, I used to think how lovely it would be to fall asleep and just never wake up…

Thankfully after about 6 weeks all of that stopped.
I recently tried telling my mum about it but she just laughed and mocked me. I couldn’t tell her WHY I had fallen into that…depression, as she doesn’t like L and T much anyway. But I don’t care to be honest. It’s over and I’m thankful for that.

T is like my brother. We tease each other, we have deep, late night conversations with each other, we give each other advice, we cuss each other, we punch/pinch/slap each other. Our relationship is akin to one of a sibling relationship. It’s honestly like he’s my older brother and he’s often said that he see’s me as his little sister.

A few deep, late night conversations ago, I confessed a lot of this to him and he listened. It felt so good to tell someone. He confessed to me about how much he truly loved L, and how he didn’t ever think their relationship would work, how he didn’t know what he’d do if they were to ever split. But his main thing was that he didn’t think L knew how much he loves her. I tried to comfort him, but silently agreed. She didn’t. She still doesn’t despite him trying to show it on numerous occasions. One of L’s bad traits is that she’s extremely insecure (as you can probably guess now…). The first time he confessed how much he loved her she didn’t believe him and thought he was trying to break up with her. As soon as they went to their own homes, she rang me and asked if it was true that he had told me about this, and if he wasn’t breaking up with her.
It was all true. The previous night he had been on webcam and msn with me and he was pouring his heart out to me and crying.
Yet when I told her, she was still unsure.

I hope one day I will be able to get over what she did (unknowingly) to me or find the courage to tell her what I’ve written out here. I also hope that one day (hopefully soon) she’ll realise how much T loves her and not doubt or question it. I’ve lost a lot of trust in her but despite it all, I still love her like I did before any of this happened.

It feels like such a relief for this to be known. Maybe the readers will understand where I’m coming from? People are constantly saying to me ‘you don’t deserve a friend like L. She’s too good for you’
If only they knew huh?

Secret Story No.4

This is the next installment in our anonymous Secret Stories series.
Just a note to anyone who has submitted a piece, I have a backlog right now, and because I’m only featuring two a week, it may take a few weeks for some of your pieces to be featured, so don’t think I’m not using them or have forgotten about them!
To submit your own Secret Story, click HERE

I loved her and I know she loved me. She said so on as many occasions. Let’s call her Jill. She just wasn’t forthcoming with the fact that there was something she loved a little more than me. I was dating this girl for nearly three years in total, but she had been bulimic for nearly 10 years before we met. I found out about a year into our relationship. She was terrified telling me and seemed scared I would leave her, but that’s not who I am. If someone has a problem, I don’t overlook it and I always try to help them with it. I mean I was her friend before I was her boyfriend, so the compulsion to help was a strong one. I thought Jill was scared telling me because I might leave her. It turns out she was scared of telling me because she was worried I would tell a doctor and have her committed to an asylum. Funny how the people you know best still don’t know you at all.

This went on for so long. Her bulimia brought on depression. She would intermittently tell me she had stopped, then I would see all the signs again – the stash of sweets under the bed, the excessive use of toilet roll, the recent photos of her ribs on her computer (I stumbled upon them while looking for holiday snaps, I didn’t hunt them. I mean there was never any reason to distrust her. Jill was always very faithful to me.).

Soon she stopped feeling the need to hide it. There were times when I would hear her as she went to the bathroom in the middle of the night, stopping for a bowl or two of cereal on the way, then coming back to bed with an empty stomach. One horrific night after a gig she got so blistered drunk that when we got home she picked up a garbage bag and started vomiting into it until there was nothing left. Then she kept going until there was no bile left. I tried and pleaded and pulled her hands away and just wanted her to stop. She had a glazed-over expression in her eyes and almost a smile as she told me so calmly “no, I like it.” She passed out completely exhausted and slept like a baby. I just sat in a bundle beside the bed with my head in my hands. I took her to hospital the next day when (surprise, surprise) she wasn’t feeling too well. The doctors found nothing unusual. Against all my most loyal urges, I told one of the nurses that she was bulimic. “What’s that?” she said. I
lost faith in anybody else caring about her at that point, much less helping.

Her periods stopped. Then the sex stopped. Then her lack of awareness came to fruition and she just started losing a grip on reason. I worried that I was a factor in her illness. I never treated her badly, but I wondered if I was suffocating her socially. When I asked her, she told me I could sleep with other people, so long as I didn’t leave her and could still take care of her. After that point, I couldn’t cry any more. I never gave her an ultimatum and this wasn’t one, but I needed to know if she had to choose between me and the bulimia, which would it be? Jill said she had asked herself that question ever since we started going out which, to me, meant that she just wasn’t willing to give it up, even if it meant the end of us. She would always have her bulimia til the day she died, that would never leave. She said it was her comfort thing, the one thing she could always rely on. Apparently that wasn’t me.

I’m a gracious loser, but not a good loser. The only thing worse than coming last is coming second and coming second to a mental affliction was something I couldn’t handle. I was on the verge of a nervous breakdown, suffering headaches, suffering academically and financially to complement the emotional woe.

I broke it off amicably. There were no tears. In fact, there were smiles.

I realise that in this story it is just my side. I’ve more than likely made her come across as a horrible, insufferably selfish bitch but this was only a small part of who she was. For the majority of our time together, she was a brilliant, happy, intelligent, beautiful and talented girl with so much going for her.  She still is and still does. She is caring and compassionate for others as well as me. This is what crushed me most of all in that no matter what I could do, no matter how I much support and love I could give, I could never help her. A close friend asked me a personal question yesterday and it reminded me of Jill, so I probably wouldn’t have thought written this, had it not been for her. It does feel good to talk(type?) about this.

I am over her, I don’t depend on her and don’t spend hours looking at old photographs, but the fact that the experience and bad memories last longer makes me so confused. Was it worth it? I’m going to stop now because I’m in fear of rambling and in no way do I want a personal confession to turn into so proto-philosophical over-sentimental rubbish.

She’s still my friend, though not as close of one. I said I’d always be here if she needed me. I meant it.