Dated: Monday 11th July, 2016
I found this little beauty in the depths of my laptop, and I was going to delete it. It’s from ages ago – when Brown Eyes and I first started the make up / break up cycle. But I wrote it, and I said I was going to use my failed NaNoWriMo attempt to clear my backlog of stashed posts, so here it is …
(Oh, and if you’re wondering what ‘Because I Can’t Write a Novel‘ is all about, click the link to be taken to the start … )
Because I Can’t Write a Novel – Day 6
I said I wouldn’t write any more words for that man but I can’t help myself right now. I can’t talk to anyone about him because everyone thinks I’m nuts for giving a shit. But I do give a shit. I still give a shit. We haven’t spoken for months. I haven’t stalked him for weeks. And then it happened, that little ‘breadcrumbing’ incident. He ‘liked’ one of my Instagram photos.
I need to explain some stuff. I dyed my hair like Harley Quinn just after I met him, and because I was crazy like her, and he was crazy like the Joker, their ‘togetherness’ became somewhat of a symbol for us. After we broke up, he got a huge tattoo, a new tattoo, a ‘Joker’ tattoo (as such – I don’t want to go into too much detail), even though he knew I’d already planned (before we met) to have my HQ tattoo. It upset me a little. I decided not to get my HQ tattoo, and then I changed my mind, and then I spoke to Bestie about it and he told me I should get it anyway. It’s not a mark for him, it’s a mark for me. I liked this year – 2016 – the year I was HQ. I want to mark it. I made loads of money, I went on vacations, I had lots of adventures, things went the right way instead of the wrong way for a start … plus I was smart with him – BE. I left him before it got too crazy. Ish.
Anyway, a couple of months after our split, he ‘liked’ an older photo of mine. It was right when we first broke up – a picture of me with my new HQ hair. I realised he’d unblocked me, but I kept my shit together. I didn’t react. I didn’t do anything at all. I managed a full day and a half before I gave in and had a look at his account. And to be fair, that day and a half was hard work. When I looked, there were little cartoon pictures, not of the HQ and Joker this time, but of a man sewing together a woman’s broken heart. Was that for my benefit? Did he ‘like’ my picture so I’d have a look at his account and see that? Is that his way of apologising? What am I meant to do with that? What do I do now?
But then I realised – that picture probably wasn’t even meant for me. He dated someone else after we split, and apparently they broke up too. It might have been for her benefit.
I left it at that and ignored it for a few more days before having another cheeky look, you know, because I’m a masochist. He’d breadcrumbed me and it had well and truly worked – I was intrigued, I was wondering. Why did he do that? Why did he ‘like’ that picture? What was the point?
The next time I looked, he’d updated with a new selfie. A hot one. There was a hashtag used in the description that made me realise it was for my benefit – he was reacting to one of my latest selfies. You know those little inside jokes you have with someone … Yep. That.
Fuck. Now what do I do? He’s communicating with me via the medium of Instagram. (I snorted as I wrote that.) Now what? What do I do?!
I know what I’ll do. I’ll ignore it. Good plan. Ignore it. Forget he ever exists. Well, apart from having a little bitch about him on Twitter obviously. I was met by multiple cries of ‘block him’ and ‘give him the middle finger’. I wanted to, I really wanted to react big style. I wanted to call him and scream at him down the phone, but I couldn’t because I didn’t have his number anymore. I wanted to put up a fuck-you quote on my Instagram, one that he knew would be specifically for his benefit, but I didn’t. I didn’t block him. I didn’t react. I just ignored him. It. The whole thing. I went about my normal life, posting photos of dinners and dogs, new shoes and cats, just like I usually would. And then he ‘liked’ another picture … The picture of my just-started tattoo. Now he was starting to test me.
The reason I didn’t block or react is because I didn’t need to. If he wants to continue to stalk me and see what he’s missing, that’s fine. He can go ahead and be my guest. I know I’m a great girlfriend, and I would have been a great girlfriend for him. I WAS a great girlfriend for him. He fucked up. He fucked up and then never apologised, and if he thinks that a couple of well-timed likes on a few Instagram photos is all it’ll take to make things better, he’s deluded. What does he seriously think will happen? I’ll message him? I’ll forget everything he ever said or the shitty way he made me feel? That I’ll forget the crying and staring at my phone, wondering what the fuck happened and why he hadn’t tried to contact me? Nah mate, you’re having a laugh. I did my pining over you. I did my grieving. I did all that. Fuck right off.
But it didn’t stop there. That final ‘like’ made me go looking just like he probably knew it would, and I was met by three HQ & J pictures, all with stupid fucking hashtags. The nickname he’d given me, for example, and other such bollocks – soul mates, meant to be, blah. And then there was one final picture of J proposing to HQ, but he deleted that not long after he posted it.
What the fuck is he doing? More than that, why the fuck is he doing it? It’s been weeks. Is this his way of saying he’s sorry? No, of course it’s not. Because if was sorry, he would have just said he was sorry. Who plays this cryptic fucking Instagram game anyway? Like seriously, grow the fuck up. I’ve had enough of this now. I already knew you were crazy, and now all you’re doing is reiterating the point for me. You’re making me realise I made the right decision. I was right in letting you go. You’re pissing me off, yes. I miss you, yes. Enough to come running back? No. Absolutely not. You’re seemingly even more nuts as an ex-boyfriend than you were as a boyfriend, and let me tell you that takes some beating, my friend.
But wait, it gets better. Just a couple of days later, I take another cheeky little peek at his account (because I’m a fucking masochist, okay?) and he’s blocked me. What the fuck?
I get it. He’s NUTS. It doesn’t make any sense. His behaviour doesn’t make any sense. He wants me to go running back obviously, that’s what the cryptic Instagram posts mean. That’s why they’re all very cleverly dedicated to me and before you ask me, I know they’re very much for my benefit. But he can’t say sorry can he? Because he’s a narcissist. He has my email address so if he were really that sorry, he could have emailed me. He could have Instagram messaged me. He could have gotten in touch with me if he’d really wanted to, he just didn’t want to. That’s not how we were meant to play the game. I was meant to go running back with my tail between my legs, professing my love for him and telling him he’s the best thing since sliced bread. Well, in the sack he might have been, but actually being with him was a nightmare, and I doubt he’ll have changed that much in the last few weeks. In fact, I know he hasn’t because he’s still playing these ridiculous games. I’ve had enough of them. It’s pathetic. Go and prey on someone else already, I’m too busy trying to be fabulous.
** I didn’t post this at the time because I felt as if I couldn’t. I know he read my blog at least once, and I was a little worried he might still be reading. He turned a little stalker-esque.
This was written over four months ago. It won me back. I went back. I gave him another chance. I was so stupid. So naive. So fucking dumb. And now, four and half months later, three months after I’ve started someone new and damn fabulous, he’s doing exactly the same things again. Narcissists have a pattern. I get it now.
In case you wanted to see what happened from here, here’s where you’ll find out: I Finally Got There.
And to catch up with how he’s fucking it all up now, you can find that out here: “How Does He Have This Hold Over You?”
- Expected word count: 10,002
- Word count today: 1604
- Word count to date: 8,322 (This word count business is harder than you’d think … even with the ‘cheating’!)