We’ve all been there, right? A relationship that should never have been. I don’t regret all my exes, in fact, I don’t regret the majority! But there are two that really stick out in my mind. One I will go slightly easier on because he did actually end up getting sectioned for a short period because he was manic.
We’ll call the first one Damien. He was the son of a snooty Spanish housewife and a placid Human Resources & Organisational Development Consultant for the NHS. They lived in a large semi-detached house in Finsbury Park. Damien was a fast-talking laid back guy who hardly ever thought before he spoke or acted. We had met because he use to talk to a friend of mine over the Internet. She’d introduced us and we thought we had gotten on pretty well online, why not meet up? To give you an example of him not thinking, he flipped off a police car and they reversed back, called him over and told him to stop showing off to his girlfriend. Things continued to develop and eventually, a relationship was born.
It started to wobble when I met his stuck up parents. His Mum was dislikable and self-righteous. She wore a denim jacket with the words ‘Rich Bitch’ studded into the back – “Oh,” she giggled, “I didn’t realise it said that when I bought it”. Not so sure I’d be caught dead in it personally. She would speak Spanish whenever I was around and never seemed to speak it any other time.
Around the six month mark in our relationship, Damien and I were caught in the act. It was very embarrassing and it gave his parents another reason to hate me. The next morning they called us both down for a ‘meeting’ of which I can’t really remember much other than them saying they didn’t want to meet me again. We could still go out but I was never to set foot anywhere near them or their home. I shrugged as any moody teenager would do and slunked off.
It dragged through for another month or so, he was off at his posh Llandudno boarding school most the time and I was back at home insisting to people that he really did exist. He’d stopped making conversation with me and if he missed my calls he didn’t phone back. One day we were sat at Brighton Station when he turned to me and said:
“Would you ever think about having an open relationship?”
“No,” I smiled back, thinking this was a general question and not a proposition, “never.”
He didn’t say anything. Eventually his train was leaving and we kissed goodbye. It didn’t take long for the text to come through after saying he didn’t want to go out with me anymore but could we still be friends.
He declined all my calls.
When he did eventually answer the phone to me, it was when I was with my friends. I’d rang so much and not got a reply that I’d half-heartedly attempted and wasn’t expecting to get through. I acted like I was ringing to tell him I didn’t care, I was moving on. He said I didn’t need to call him to tell him that and I cackled like a mad woman, although would later cry tears of regret when he changed his number.
Fast-forward a few years and Damien gets in contact. I was in a six month old relationship at that time and he readily offered that he was with a girl that he’d been going out with for two weeks. “It’s love,” he told me, “you think you know what love is but you’re too young to really know.” He’s exactly one year, one day older than me by the way. I snapped and told him to get a grip, it had been two fucking weeks and he swiftly backed down. Just like they swiftly broke up.
He phoned me again a few months later and told me he was writing a book, that he’d spoken to some really important psychologist who had said he had some groundbreaking ideas.
They were barking mad.
I listened and wondered what the hell he was talking about. Then he asked me if I would be in his book.
“You want me to be in your book?”
“Well, on the cover.”
“Erm,” he’s clearly mad, I thought, best just agree, “sure.”
“Okay,” he continued, “so I’ll be in the centre of the cover.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And I’ll have lightening coming from my head.”
“I see.”
“And I’ll be topless.”
“Right.”
“And you’ll be in a boat.”
“Ah.”
“Wearing a pink bikini.”
He proceeded to list other various things on this cover and, as mentioned, did eventually get sectioned. He’s okay now and we’re still friends on Facebook. He’s now a longhaired hipster who freestyles but that’s none of my business…
The second guy was a real loser. He was twenty seven years old, living at home with no real job. We used to be friends as kids even though I was nine years younger than he was. We got in touch and went for a drink. A couple of weeks later we were an item.
He told me he was a self employed IT technician but he was predominantly, it appeared, a drug dealer. I should’ve known when a large black BMW pulled over and the guy started yelling at him. He told me it was an old argument that the guy just wouldn’t let go.
One night I went over there and he said we were going for a drive in a car he had borrowed. His car had supposedly been impounded although I now largely suspect that it wasn’t by the council… We drove to a row of garages where we picked another suspicious character up who immediately told my guy that ‘The Nigerians’ had been threatening to cut his face. I sat quietly and willed that this so-called drive would be over soon. We dropped off God knows what to a few people and eventually returned to his parents house. He proceeded to rack up a few lines and get high with this bizarre friend. I wondered how much this was costing, given I know cocaine is very expensive and they seemed to have loads. They were still doing it when I left (I could never stay over because his parents didn’t allow it so I had to get the last bus back at night).
I started to get friend requests on Facebook from mutual friends of my guy which I gleefully accepted. Then suddenly I began to get more and more until I asked him what was up. Why had I started getting messages asking if he and I were in a relationship? He told me not to worry but also not to answer or accept anymore of these “friends”.
One day my guy called and begged me to get the bus to meet him at the train station near his house and I can’t believe I actually did. It’s a twenty five minute journey. As soon as I was off the bus, he begged me to give him any money I had. I politely held out a ten pound note.
“No!” He yelled frantically, “I need more money! Don’t you have anything else?!”
I told him I did not.
“Jesus Christ!” He paced back and forth, “I don’t know what to do!” He explained that he was in £60,000 worth of debt to his suppliers who were now fed up of waiting. They told him he had until seven to come up with the money or they would go to the family home and tell all to his parents. At the time I had envisioned this to be a polite conversation, like a teacher might have with a parent, but now I think about it, it definitely would be more aggressive than that. Those Facebook messages I’d been getting? They were the baddies. I was starting to see the kind of situation I was getting myself into.
“Look, you need to go home and tell your mum and dad. It will be a lot easier for them hearing it from you than hearing it from this other twat.”
He told me how much he didn’t want to but eventually conceded that this was the only real option and off he went. I made the bus journey home again.
I explained to my parents that my guy was in trouble and they reluctantly agreed to let him stay once his parents had (understandably) asked him to leave. He stayed one night and then his Dad picked him up the next. He went into rehab and I don’t know if they paid what these guys wanted but they never messaged me again.
When he was *ahem* better, I went over there one night and asked if he could fix my laptop for me. He said yes and introduced me to a friend of his who had recently come out as gay – congratulations! We sat around talking and drinking until the last bus was coming up.
“Hey, do you think you can do that laptop? Bus is due soon.”
“Yeah,” he replied, “I’ll do it tomorrow or something.”
“I need it!” (…Or I can’t play The Sims)
“S, it’s too late now! Come and get it tomorrow.”
I picked up my laptop and called him and his friend wankers and took my leave. Why? I guess because I’d been drinking Stella ActaTwat. That was the only time. My guy followed me outside and I told him that I thought he was a fucking loser. Did it need to happen? Yes, he needed some home truths. Did I do it the right way? Definitely not. We argued past the last bus and my mum kindly came to pick me up. I sent him an apology the next day but it was over. He didn’t speak to me again until we bumped into each other a few years later when he told me he’s moved in with his girlfriend and had a good career now. Good for him! Sadly, they’ve since parted I think and I’ve no idea where he is now but I hope he’s happy and safe, wherever he may be…
Don’t do drugs, kids.
Sx
ilovemyshitlife 