“Tomorrow I’m going to say something really significant (probably)”

I like the fact this blog is not really political. I care a lot about politics, but this is just meant to be my silly stories about sex, my dates and relationships.

However, all the nonsense with Whippersnapper reminds me of Brexit:

  • everyone involved, whether they wanted it or not, is bloody sick of hearing about it
  • whatever your stance, it’s hard to deny that both sides have communicated poorly or made promises they can’t keep
  • there’s been a spike in hate speech

After my beloved Whippersnapper failed to apologise for all his abusive messages, I blocked him on WhatsApp and Facebook.

I didn’t want anymore horrible messages, and when he didn’t seem sorry, I didn’t know if he’d do it again. Also, I wanted to take some control back.

I was totally gutted. The worst thing was how unexpected it was.

I spent the rest of that week feeling really preoccupied and sad. Men saying horrible things to me was becoming all too familiar.

First, I went out with Matthew, who I was scared of when he was angry. He regularly swore at me and called me names (e.g. a dick, a twat), as well as putting me down a lot.

Then there was Daniel, the Amersham guy, who was hurt when I didn’t want a relationship. He seemed to deliberately choose the most hurtful and threatening things he could think of to say – that my body was disappointing, that I need Psychological help and threatening to report me to my professional body at work.

I felt like there had at least been warning signs with these two, but with Whippersnapper, he was the last person I expected it from.

It shook my beliefs about myself and other people. I don’t think I’m a cunt, but also I thought he was a lovely, nonthreatening person who made me feel safe.

I am bringing this on myself? Do I deserve it?

If I can’t trust Whippersnapper, who can I trust?

I spent a lot of time re-reading the awful messages, as if there was a hidden code that would suddenly make sense.

Then, on Friday morning, I woke up to find he had sent me an old-fashioned text message in the middle of the night. He must’ve tried to send it by WhatsApp, realised I’d blocked him, and tried to find another way to reach me:

“Yeah [Dater Analysis], you were definitely right about me speaking to you terribly. I’ve been avoiding looking at the messages because of how bad they were. I truly am sorry about that. And obviously I do care about you and I would never want you to feel bad.

“I don’t even know what happened Monday night. I got into (a literal) fight with one of my friends and was in a horrendous mood. But anyway, none of these are your problems and it’s unfair of me to lay them on you as if you’re my counsellor.

“I also think in hindsight I don’t know whether it’s wise to stay in contact as it does feel like I’m not letting you move on. But I just didn’t want to leave things on such a bad note. So, goodbye, and good luck x”.

My reactions:

  • so relieved he said sorry
  • which one of his mates did he get into a fight with? I wonder if he got punched. I kind of wanted to know the gory details
  • I was annoyed he’d been able to ‘avoid looking at those messages’, when I had read them so many times, they were stencilled onto my visual cortex
  • after working in mental health for years, I’m now impressed when someone gets the right one out of ‘councillor’ and ‘counsellor’
  • Mate, I blocked you on most forms of communication. I think it’s kind of redundant to say ‘I don’t know whether it’s wise to stay in contact’.
  • ‘A bad note’?? A bad note is like C# or something. This was not a bad note. This was a bad fucking symphony. This was like a symphony where the orchestra get their instruments out and find they’ve got machetes instead.

I didn’t reply for days, because I had so many different things I wanted to say, I didn’t know which to go with, or whether even to reply at all.

There was a bit of back and forth between us over the next few weeks, which I won’t bore you with. I’m the person it happened to, and even I’m sick of hearing about it.

Then, the last noteworthy thing that happened was this. I was talking to my supervisor at work, and realised I kept thinking my patients were higher risk than they were. I realised I was still so worried about Whippersnapper, I was kind of carrying that around and transferring it onto my patients.

I realised that if he were a patient, I might be worried about him, as stated in previous posts, because he had talked about feeling so depressed and wishing he was dead, plus various other factors like him being a young man (high risk demographic group), being unemployed (I think, although he might be working again now), seeming to be drinking too much (I can really talk about this one).

I met my friend for dinner who is the last Whippersnapper Advocate; she is infinitely compassionate to anyone who is being a dick, because she thinks she has done worse, earlier in her life, because she has had a very tough life. She encouraged me to send the following message, to help me feel less worried:

“I wasn’t going to message you again, because I’ve already made such a tit of myself, during our dating-Brexit negotiations. But I’m so worried about you.

“I know you’re usually drunk when you message me, so it probably isn’t a representative cross-section, but you’ve mentioned self-hatred and wishing you were dead and self-harm and I can’t stop thinking about that. Even in The Cuntgate Messages, you said you hope you die. Those messages made part of me want to just give you a massive hug because you seemed so upset and out of character.

“I’m so scared something terrible is going to happen if you’re feeling like you want to die, and you wouldn’t know I was still here, silently continuing to care. I have felt like that and it’s terrible.

“If you feel like that, you can always talk to me, whatever’s going on with us. If it feels too complicated to let me help, I know you’ve got lots of friends who care about you.
Obviously we haven’t been in touch and you might be feeling better already – I really hope so. It’s not surprising if you do feel a bit down though; if you’re not working yet, that often gets people down, too much time to think about bad things. You’ve been coping with a horrible, distressing problem for years and it’s not your fault.
I really hope you go to IAPT and get help on the NHS. Dying is not the only way to stop the whirring of your mind. Getting help might be scary and difficult in the short term but so amazingly worth it.

“You are such an incredible man, you deserve to be so happy and free of this. You deserve to be proud of the fabulous person you are and the beautiful way you look.”

I know he had been hateful towards me, but I still loved him and wanted him to be safe. I feel really responsible for him, even though I’m completely powerless, because I don’t know if he’s talking to anyone else about this stuff, and normally in this situation (when people talk to me about their mental health and wanting to die) I actually am kind of responsible.

A few days later, on a Saturday night, he replied:

Headfuck

Oh my God! 

What is he going to say tomorrow!

I wondered. Part of me read “I shall explain all tomorrow” and thought that’d better not be in a suicide note which a coroner reads to me at a later date.

I couldn’t wait to find out what he was going to say.

My top 5 speculations were:

  • I wasn’t OK. I was in a bad place but then your message helped
  • I wasn’t OK because of something unrelated that happened (e.g. a family member being ill) on top of everything else
  • I have now started getting help for my problems and this is how it’s going…
  • Your nice message made me realise I want you back
  • I’ve realised what a dick I’ve been lately and wanted to apologise

Then, the next day, I met my friend (Open Relationship Guy!) and we went to the cinema. He suggested various cinemas and times for us to watch the film (Life). I chose the Curzon at Victoria, because the time was most convenient.

What I hadn’t realised, is that cinema is actually nearer St. James’s Park than Victoria. We met at the cinema, but decided to go for a drink first. Several of my dates with WS were near St. James’s Park, as it was convenient for both of us. We walked into one pub, and I thought Shit, this is the pub we came to on our final date. 

I tried not to think about that, as I had a drink with Open Relationship Guy. I tried not to check my phone too much.

What is he going to say when he ‘explains it all’??

We walked back to the cinema, and I suddenly realised we were walking through the garden where WS and I kissed on our second date – still the best kiss in my entire life. I tried to seem like I was listening as my friend talked; I stared wistfully at the patch of ground where we stood for that kiss.

We walked past the tube entrance where we kissed for the last time, before I went to India.

It was like an Open-top Bus tour of significant moments from Whippersnapper and Dater Analysis’s relationship (literally no one would pay for that bus tour).

Guess what he sent me, in the end, that day.

Guess how he ‘explained all tomorrow’.

He sent me…

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

I need to trigger Article 50.

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