Oh God, What Was I Thinking

Ugh. I’ve been putting off writing this one, because although it happened close to twenty years ago, I still feel pretty bad about it. But I promised I’d write about every person, and I can’t gloss over this one. I can at least confirm that it has never happened since.

Well. Um… Well, not exactly. We’ll get to that in future posts.

To recap, because I’m not actually expecting anyone to read these, I was still dating #2. We were at university together, in our final year, and living in a student house off-campus. Him, me, and our two fellow housemates.

Now, I want to set the scene here, but I categorically promise and pinkie-swear that this is not an excuse for my behaviour. I’m simply looking back at the events that unfolded, and documenting what I did wrong, and why. In a nutshell though, I was pretty fucking depressed.

My Grandmother had recently passed away. That crushed me. She was the first person I’d lost who I was close to, and I was devastated. My career plans had crumbled. The company I’d dreamt of working for so many years announced they were no longer moving forward with the very thing I had been studying. Suddenly, those two-and-a-bit years seemed completely pointless. Everything felt pointless. I felt pointless.

This feeling of pointlessness quickly spread like a black fungus into every aspect of my life, including my relationship with #2. I had nothing to offer anyone. Why was he even with me? Those thoughts swirled around my head and stuck to anything I touched.

Still not an excuse…

It was around this time that #2 left for a trip. And that’s when I made my move… NOOOOO it wasn’t like that, I swear.

So before #3 was #3, he was a housemate. And housemates sometimes hang out together. So one night, we were. Watching stupid shit on TV, having a glass of wine, and hanging out. I will cut to the chase, but it rapidly went from being sat on separate chairs, to conveniently sitting on the same sofa, to him saying I was “really pretty”, to us kissing, to us accidentally wandering into his bedroom while simultaneously losing all of our clothes on the way.

I will say, he did initiate the kiss. But I did not hesitate in kissing back. Now, the only reason why I mentioned feeling so utterly depressed in the beginning was that the simple act of being complimented made my heart soar. I had felt so worthless and hopeless and useless for months (something which would later be diagnosed as Depression, but I was none the wiser back then). I had no reason to feel like this, I just did. And while I cannot stress enough that this was not an excuse, looking back on why I let it happen does seem to add up now.

Did I enjoy it? OH GOD, YES. Which is more than likely something I said several times while writhing around in his single bed. But afterwards I felt wracked with guilt. I’d done the unthinkable. I felt truly, truly terrible, and if I thought I felt low before, I certainly did now.

Several days later, #2 returned from his trip. I never told him, and I don’t think #3 did either. I’ve never told anyone the details – I mean, it’s not exactly something I’ve wanted to brag about, and no good would have come of it. #2 and I soon split up anyway and went our separate ways. We naturally drifted apart, and I’ve not spoken to him since.

But while I wasn’t proud of myself, there was a tiny devilish particle inside me. I couldn’t help it. A faint inner devious voice saying “you’re single now, babe…”

No more beige boyfriend.

No more Mr Brightside.

I was free to unleash my newfound sexual prowess on the world. Well, Newport…