I’m a Relationship-Masochist.

Just ignore me. I’m having a little moment to myself. Guess what, it’s Jock related again. He’s not even in my life and he’s still haunting me. Pffft.

My Bestie updated my Papa’s sat-nav and he needed a bigger memory card. I had an old memory card; a bigger one, so I plugged it into my Mac and sat down to go through and clear it. I realised something. It was the memory card from my old phone. It had every photo I’d ever taken of Jock, or that he’d sent me, in a folder. I decided to do the sensible thing and move everything to a cloud somewhere and figure it out later.

Except I didn’t do that. Because I’m a relationship-masochist.

The photo of him looking much thinner than he actually was (great angle) in his superhero pants, socks, sunglasses and a cigarette hanging out his mouth. The multiple photos of him in his onesie, tucked in for the night, a smile on his face and usually a thumbs-up. Standard good night photos really. He looked so crazy in most of them that looking at them always made me laugh even when I was mad at him. Which let’s face it, was a lot.

There was the super-hot photo of him in a beanie, smoking a cigar. His big blue eyes looked beautiful in that photo. I always loved that photo of him. Then there were a couple of full-body shots he had sent me, asking for my opinion on the outfit, normally looking mouthwateringly good. The photos of that red hair that I absolutely HATED and the stupid red mohawk that followed. He needed to get rid of that because work had a shit fit so he shaved the whole thing off and looked like an utter thug for a while too.

I loved that about him. He changed the hair on his face and head just as often as I changed my hair, and he always surprised me with it. Life with him was never boring. I was never bored. I think that’s why I fell so hard for him. He was the only guy who ever managed to keep up with me. He was the only guy who’d managed to keep my attention from start to finish, and although we had little shitty patches every now and then, I was still the happiest I’d ever been. He made me feel really good about myself and that, by itself, was the best gift he could ever have given me. It’s a shame my confidence disappeared with him.

There was that very first photo of his butt he’d sent me at the beginning of our romance. The pants-shot to show me his upper-leg tattoos that I’d scrutinised with my female work colleagues to try and determine what he was packing ‘down there’…Then there were the photos he’d sent me that very first morning we met for the very first time. The selfie he’d taken in the car that has me beaming from ear to ear even now as I write this. After everything we went through, after everything he put me through, that photo of his face still makes me smile. It still makes my heart melt. I would still do absolutely anything for that man. Sometimes I wish he knew that. I know it’s too late now and nothing would ever take us back to how we were back then, but I really wish he knew how much he meant to me. How much he means to me. Still.

I shouldn’t have gone through the photos on that memory card. That was a dumb idea. What a div. I’m a relationship masochist.