Posted in Blog

New Valentine’s Song

This time last year I was in a long-term relationship with my ex. I hoped everything was going ok: I hoped that we were finally going to move in together; I hoped that I was finally going to meet his friends (I hadn’t met any); I hoped that I would finally stop feeling so paranoid, insecure, nervous all the time.

Four months later I broke up with him.

Two months later I met my current boyfriend.

Five months later I’m now living with him.

There have been people who have commented that I have moved pretty fast.

True.

I met my Valentine at the end of August, and realised that I was falling in love with him within two weeks of meeting him. Within a month of meeting him I had told him so, because I knew that he wouldn’t freak out. And he didn’t. He told me that he felt the same way.

You may remember “Barry”, the big-arse damp patch in my old room? While moving, it shocked me to realise what a situation I had allowed myself to get into. I had moved into a damp-ridden house on the unevident promise that I wouldn’t be living there for long, because I had assumed that dropping hints, as well as outright asking AND living in poverty, was enough to kick my ex into gear to step up the search to find a place for us to live together. However, just like our relationship, my room and my clothes began to rot.

On Sunday, I spent an hour rescuing my semi-expensive rug because I refused to let it succumb to the rot of my past. As I scrubbed away the dust, mould and other bits of shit, I took out all of my frustrations too, which at first were directed at the ex, who had allowed the supposed girl whom he loved, to live in such conditions – such conditions which had also made me incredibly ill. I still remember when I found out that he’d changed his mind about moving in together and hadn’t told me, and asking him how he felt about me living in such a place; his reply: “it’s fine”.

My point of this post is not to bash my ex, but to preach about trusting your instincts. Scrubbing at that rug, my anger soon became directed at myself, because I’d known all along that I should’ve let him go long before I did, because I’ve always been able to trust myself. Mental health stigma did make me question my decisions at some points last year, however when I think back through my life, I know that my instincts have never been wrong. When I broke up with my ex, I told him that we both needed to find people more like us: I was too weird for him (his family constantly said so), and he was too boring for me (my friends constantly said so). And I was right.

Just like now.

So yes, five months is incredibly soon to some, to be moving in with somebody; to be declaring him as the love of my life; to say truthfully that I have no doubts about the way I feel for him and the way he feels for me.

But this is because I love myself just as much as I love him and that’s why I feel so secure.

By the way,

IMG_20170212_165126.jpg

…Scrubbed with my bare hands!!!!!

 

 

Author:

I’m Cece Alexandra and I have Epilepsy. Since being diagnosed, my life has changed significantly. After studying and teaching Humanities and Literature for all of my adult life, I was bullied and lost my job a month before qualifying to become an English Teacher. Once you fail the Teacher Training course in England, you cannot ever retrain; I then became too sick to work because of my Epilepsy. I am now currently studying an MSc in Mental Health Psychology with the University of Liverpool. My disability provokes me into raising awareness for invisible disabilities, which I also actively partake in with Epilepsy Action. Part of that awareness is to help fight against invisible disability discrimination - I believe that this behaviour is not cognitively unconscious; modern society is actively partaking in a hierarchy of disabilities and I believe that there is not enough psychological research to prove this. I am also clinically interested in Cultural Psychology - particularly Collectivist Culture, and wish to pursue this further in my academic career.

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