This was how I spoke to myself, back then. I had no idea of the trouble I was already in. No idea of the stories I was telling myself. No idea that he and I were separate people, even. I thought we owed each other something; something more than this.
Just before we broke up, I noticed that his kiss was different.
It had already been clear for over a year, ever since that holiday in Noosa, that things were not going to work out. I used to lecture him about his dope, until one day he looked at me and said, ‘Look who’s talking, Clare. You’re a fucking mess. You can’t stop eating. Don’t come over here telling me I have to get my life together when you are no better yourself.’
He was right. One hundred per cent.
Still, I was furious. Devastated. Didn’t speak to him for two weeks.
But then, somehow, we played on and on, until the night when he finally said the words that would close the door on this love affair. We were in bed when he said it. Said, ‘Babe, stop. We need to talk.’
He never said things like that. My heart started thumping.
‘What?’ I said.
‘I’m sorry, we have to stop.’
‘What’s wrong?’
And then out tumbled the truth.
He couldn’t do it anymore. Said he cared for me, but he wasn’t in love with me anymore. Said we needed to break up, for good. Said, ‘I’m sorry.’ And he was sorry. I could hear it in his voice. But what I also heard was that he was … done. All this time, I’d thought I was here protecting him, but now I saw it was in fact him who had been trying to protect me. Trying not to embarrass me. Trying to let me down gently. And he didn’t want the job anymore. He was tired of it. He was done. And that, I suppose, is where the old shame set in.
I rolled over, sat up, heard myself—sharp breath—sucking in air. Holding the doona to my chest, I felt a shame so grand and tall and old that all I could say was, ‘I beg your pardon?’, and pretend, for one second longer, that I hadn’t heard him.
He repeated himself, more gently this time, but I was already off, crawling on the floor in the dark looking for my keys, saying, ‘Yep, got it. Yep. No worries. Yep.’
I was pulling on my clothes as he turned on the light. He was wearing one sock, and a t-shirt. He followed me around the room, trying to apologise. He told me not to take it personally. When he said things were just ‘getting so unhealthy’, I stopped him there, said, ‘Unhealthy? For fuck’s sake. Since when did you prioritise health? Is that why you’re stoned all the time? For your health?’
He went quiet. The only sound in the room was me talking to myself as I hunted for my other sandal, telling myself I am a fucking idiot. I can’t believe I wasted all this time thinking this would work out. What a fucking idiot.
Somewhere in my scrambling, I accidentally knocked over his bong. Stinky water all over the carpet. I said, ‘Shit shit shit,’ but he was calm as ever. He just grabbed a towel to clean it up, asked if I wanted a cup of tea.
I looked at him. ‘No, thanks. Go fuck yourself!’
I walked out the door without saying goodbye, carrying a feeling in me so sharp, so bad, I doubted it was possible to live through it.
I did not look back, I just walked to my car, felt the cold night air slapping the top of my ears, slapping the tops of my toes where my sandals left my skin exposed, and that was how it ended. That was how I left the home and the heart of the man who once told me he would love me forever but had now changed his mind.
When I think back to this moment, I can still feel the heat of that shame in my chest. I remember how my hands shook as I inserted my keys into the ignition, how fast I drove off, how my head started racing, and how there was a wildness in me after that, a danger. In my head, the voice piped up, a loud story about how maybe, on a whim, I should crash my car into a tree. That would show him.
When I caught myself thinking that thought, imagined the horror of it actually playing out, I was filled with a flash of panic so hot and strong I pulled the car over on the side of the road to calm myself down.
And still, inside my head, the words kept racing.
Fuck him, said the voice in my head. He will be sorry one day. FUCK HIM. You don’t need him.
That’s when the idea came to me: one clear idea, to cut through, to lift me above the horror of the rejection. I am going to move to London, I decided, and I am not going to come home until I am thin.
Why thin? Why not … brilliant? Because, said
