Dictatorship: part 4
Early spring 2015. I had been a “prisoner” in my own home and relationship for over one and a half year. In November I found out he had been flirting with a colleague for a while and not that innocent kind of flirt, but the “I wish I was at work talking to you” when spending the day with me kind of flirt. How ironic is that? Him being so terrified of me even speaking to another male, only to go and do what he fears the most himself. Maybe that is why he was like that with me, because he knew what he was doing?
I went home for Christmas. I was miserable. I cried and talked a lot with my sister, which was wonderful. I had at that time started opening up about my situation to her and also my friend Maria who also lived in London. I think the whole situation was the final push I needed. I came back to London and when he was done apologising (which happened almost immediately) he would get angry at me for bringing it up, for being sad, for not letting it go. Angry with me because I was hurt by his actions. What a total ass, excuse the language.
So I stopped being sad. I stopped bringing it up. I stopped caring. When I looked at him I felt no love, I felt hate. I hated him for allowing me to waste so much time on him. I hated him for who he made me be when we were together. I stopped caring if he got upset with me staying out drinking with my colleagues. I stopped answering all his questions when I came home. I stopped his access to my accounts. No more big brother.
It was Friday, early May. I was in the office drinking after work having a jolly good time. Then a colleague of mine said “there’s someone standing outside looking in through the window”. Our office was a bit lower than ground level, with windows all the way on one side so you could easily see the entire office from the street. It was him. I went outside and he was crying, asking me to come home. I almost did. But then I didn't. I started yelling at him instead. Saying everything I had been carrying around, before leaving him to continue my evening. I went home that night, slept, woke up, broke up, moved out.
Until next time, Renate