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A year ago in New York

20 Jul

willow-in-times-square

Last year at this time I was with him in New York. I thought everything was OK. We were coming to the end of him working away for the summer. I felt kind of relieved, and just so damn excited for him to come home.

Of course I didn’t know that within a few hours of getting home he would break up with me.

Just writing that makes my stomach flip.

Because the time I spent in New York was obviously the final test. The final week that led him to feel completely sure: he didn’t want me.

The week that I used to leave him surprises of an ice cream variety in the freezer whenever I was out. And buy him stuff in the Penguin sale. And take photos everywhere I went of things I thought he’d like to see. The week I surprised him with tickets to Wicked. And had noisy sex on a creaky bed.

Ultimately, when I try and understand what I feel about that week is boils down to utter humiliation. With a capital H-UMILIATION. I travelled 4,000 miles to convince the person I loved that he had never been in love with me. Wow. I have such an effect on people. Go me.

It still hurts.

I’m doing so much better these days. I’m looking forward to passing the one-year mark. But I met an old friend for breakfast today, and out of my mouth plopped the words I haven’t yet been able to articulate.

“I’m scared that I’ll never be able to connect to someone else.”

How can I? A year ago in New York I thought I was kissing and hugging and sleeping with a man who loved me.

He didn’t.

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