As I walked from my Liverpool Street train towards my work, I couldn’t help but think the universe was just laughing at me.
In every window, it seems, through the station, were horrific pink hearts, dire expressions of love and everything else that goes with the horrific maelstrom of ick we call Valentine’s Day.
Give the WhatsApp break-up on Sunday with Chris, given that he told me after a month of stirnging me long that he “just wanted to be friends” while he was fucking half of London, I wasn’t feeling in the most loved-up mood. In fact, it gave me a very large urge to tear something in half. Preferably the beautiful leather-bound notebook he gave me for Christmas. Or perhaps his testicles. Either one, really.
I’ll admit I fantasised about doing something for Valentine’s Day with him. I’ll admit I thought of, for once, being on the other side of the fence with someone I really, truly cared about. Maybe even loved. After all the time being strong and cynical, I imagined him just treating me wonderfully and, as cliche as it is, a small, secret part of me just wanted that Valentine’s Day dream. I’d never admit it openly, but I wanted it. Oh, how I wanted it.
Instead, all I feel is these unrelenting feelings of anger. Hatred. I imagine terrible things happening to him. I picture things I know he loved and I fantasise about somehow taking them from him. It’s like the beautiful, pure, golden love I felt for him has turned into a black torrent of rage and despair. I get up, I go to work, I see my friends. But all the while, just below the surface, lie these thoughts. I curse him. In my mind, I curse him over and over again. Sometimes, the only satisfaction I can get is from picturing him in agony. My mind screams out that I owe him pain.
Which means seeing the annual outpouring of cringe-inducing cards and overly-sweetened candy boxes does nothing to lighten my mood.
I think I know in my mind somewhere that such feelings are destructive. They can leak out and poison other areas of your life. But the wellspring of feelings I had for him are trapped inside and have nowhere to go. When he was with me it was like I could feel them leaving my body and satisfaction coming in, like warm loving tendrils. Now it’s a sharp, screaming, multi-tentacled mess squatting inside me.
I hate him. I hate him so much but at the same time I want him. I lie awake and in tears wishing that somehow, somehow he could come back and just hold me. Turn me over like he’d so in the middle of the night and wrap his arms around me. That it could somehow be like it was in the beginning, when he was attentive and felt like the start of a wonderful new adventure. When it felt like, for the first time, someone was as attracted to me as I was to them. He was everything I’d ever wanted in one man. He wasn’t perfect, he had his faults, but they somehow just formed a part of what was adorable about him.
Now I don’t think I’ve ever felt this alone. This resentful of people who are happy. I see them around me and I want to rage, to scream, to tell them that one of them is probably fucking someone else.
I look around at all this love and beauty in the world, and a small child’s voice inside me cries out “where’s mine?”.
Where is it?