The empty egg breaks


If the past week has taught me anything, it’s that I’m very definitely dumped. 

I feel like a faulty Cadbury Creme Egg, one that didn’t get any creme filling. I’ve taken a knock and come apart and there’s no substance inside. Nothing. 

The wrapper is torn and I’m squelched underfoot now – time for the bin. 

What does a girl do when all her hopes, plans and dreams have revolved around building a life with someone who doesn’t want her anymore, and probably hasn’t for quite some time?

I’m guessing normal girls watch movies, eating delicious things in their pyjamas, while their friends either commiserate with them in person, or offer support over the phone. 

Maybe they go out, get drunk, end up shouting, “Baaaaah! Who needs love anyway?” and then snog someone at the first opportunity, just to prove they can. 

Maybe they race to find a new partner. Or maybe they race to improve their own lives and find contentment and meaning that way… and probably a wonderful new love later on. 

The problem is, I’m not a normal girl. I haven’t got anyone to chat to or drink with. Nobody’s going to tell me I was too good for him (I wasn’t). Nobody’s going to tell me I can do better (I can’t) or any of that other trite and irritating “it all happens for a reason, babe” stuff. 

I look down the corridor of my future and, where open doors of opportunity once lay, now there is only the blinding white of locked doors. 

It’s all gone. The home I hoped to share with him. The happiness I hoped we could build. The healing. 

The meaning of all that I’ve invested: the time I spent writing him love letters, knitting for him, sewing for him, scouring the world for ways to show him how much I love him, how special he is. It’s all gone. 

Every effort, every tear, every butterfly in my stomach has turned to ash in my mouth, and I cough and splutter until I am nearly sick. Sometimes I am sick. The rest of the time, I’m huddled over with pain. I can’t eat. 

I’m trapped in the corridor of closed doors and so I keep looking at them, forced to think of what’s hidden and barred to me forever: safety, a happy family, a loving partner, a purpose. 

There will be no validation. No self-worth. 

I try not to think about the little things – like the holidays we had dreamed of, the walks and bike rides together – or the frightening practical things, like how I will cope as a chronically and mentally ill woman with no job or savings. 

I try not to think. I try to let it all wash over me, to sit with my pain and let it go. 

But, trapped in a corridor of closed doors, where is a girl to go?

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