He was 32. I was 20.
You’d think that with me being so young, he might have taken pity on me, but I guess some men are just hardwired to not give a sh*t.
I waited a year and a half to confront the girlfriend-of-five-years through an emotional and heartfelt message on Facebook. I prepared myself for the fallout, and I knew I deserved every single thing that she spewed at me: how she told me I took part in ruining a relationship, how I should have told her sooner, and how I’m a terrible person for not doing so. I told her I understood, and that I couldn’t express how sorry I was. She ended it by telling me to (essentially) f**k off.
I deserved it.
I’m not in the business of making myself out to be the victim. I knew what I was doing, but I didn’t care. I didn’t care that he never uttered her name, despite having to move her sunglasses off the passenger seat one night. I didn’t care that he went home to someone else.
It was exciting. I won’t lie. But I faced severe consequences for doing so. Fortunately, I ended up moving to an entirely different town where we weren’t able to have eye-sex from across the building, hands shaking from holding back, and me waiting for him to say something—anything. It was exhilarating and heart-pounding, treasonous and unforgivable.
It was delicious.
And yet here I am, hunched over a toilet a year and a half later. I’m about to throw up.
It was entirely too suspicious, how fast he moved on. My intuition is telling me the woman is pregnant, but I’m desperately hoping I’m wrong. This is more than likely the Universe conspiring against me, and shouting at me from the darkness of the void: “Well, you deserve it you f***kin’ c****.” And who am I to tell the Universe she’s wrong?
The worst part is that I never ended up dating him. Not officially. Even after he left his girlfriend—the real one. I was a pawn, maybe even a kink, but I might be generous in that regard. I was younger than him by over a decade; I was small, quirky and a little odd. He was tall and handsome, refreshing like a glass of water. He listened to me, and I gravitated towards him like he was the Earth and I was the moon.
“La Luna.” I don’t deserve to be compared to her.
The last heartbreak I had was when I was a freshman in high school. I thought he was my soulmate, and we shared secrets like teenagers do. I found him interesting, but not tempting—not like Samuel*. Nonetheless, I molded myself into the couch, ate an entire gluten-free pound cake my sister-in-law made, and watched reruns of “The Nanny.” I couldn’t possibly imagine it would get worse than this. I couldn’t possibly imagine that one day I’d be staring at a computer screen, eyes skimming over an Instagram post, where the man who busted me open is flaunting his girlfriend on social media like she’s a trophy for escaping karma.
“F**k you”, I want to say. But I can’t. I can’t say to him, f**k you. I can only tell him about how I hope he doesn’t break this woman’s heart like he did with me and the woman he was dating for the past five years—the woman he shared a damn dog and house with. I told him how I hoped karma would catch up to him—and it will, just like it did with me.
I wonder now: how is it that the Universe is not hurting him…but just me?
Doesn’t it take two to tango? That’s what I’ve always been told. When my parents split, I was informed it was because of an affair (or a string of them, anyway) by both parties. Ironically enough, I must have assumed it’d all work out because my mother is now married to a very wealthy man and my father is still with the woman he’d fallen in love with 15 years ago.
But why not me?
I think it’s because I’ve done many things in my life that might be considered wrong, or maybe it’s just because I’m a woman (hear me out). Is it possible for the Universe to be sexist? Ignorant? No, I don’t think so. I believe the Universe to be feminine. Maybe she’s conjuring up a storm for him and cushioning the blow for me.
Still, I refuse to hurdle over the obstacles. What I did was wrong and, like aforementioned, I’m willing to take my part of the blame.
I’ve done a lot of sh*t to people in the past year. I think it’s high time we stop pretending we’re the victims in situations we obviously made worse. We do things for a reason. I made a choice, and now I’m suffering the consequences of it.
I hate hurting people. That’s not who I am. So, I’d like to reintroduce myself as a brand-new woman, and I think it’s especially called for after what I’ve done:
I’m Mikaela. I don’t like to break hearts or allow others to break mine. I empathize deeply with people. The decisions I make are from the heart and not common sense. I let myself get away with sins and treasons as long as it feels good, and I convince myself it’s on the basis of love, even if it means ruining the lives of others. I refuse to hurt any more women just because of someone who’s a dime a dozen.
Never again will I let a man come between me and my fellow women. They deserve the world, and they are my allies.
I am not the victim just because my actions are based in romanticism.
Sometimes your feelings, while valid, will lead you astray.
Do not let them.
*Name has been changed due to privacy reasons
Author: Mikaela Revard
Email: [email protected]
Author Bio: I love natural sciences and ancient history. Taurus sun. Cancer rising and Capricorn moon! I’m writing my third book.
Link to social media or website: Twitter @mikaeladault
