Please be positive, please be positive. If it’s positive he can't leave me, he can't. I can feel him slipping away but he can't. He can't he can't. I closed my eyes and chanted positive over and over again for what seemed like forever, tears streaming down my face. I opened my eyes and looked down into my hands.
Two lines. Pregnant.
My stomach churned. I thought this is what I wanted? I wanted it to be positive. He can't leave me now. Can he? Oh god what have I done? I don't want this, I don't want this! Fresh tears spring from my eyes as I let out a long sob. What if he doesn't believe me? What if he thinks I'm saying this to keep him? What if it pushes him further away? What have I done? What am I going to do?
I knew the answer to that. “Abortion” a voice in my head whispered. My gut knew that was my decision, but I began to fantasise. We could be a family? He would stay with me forever then, he might abandon me but he wouldn't leave a child? Would he? No. I can't, that's not right, that's not what I want. I just want him. I slide down the door and lie on my side. My hot cheeks feeling the cool bathroom tiles. My head screaming with a thousand different thoughts, racing. I hit my head with my fist, why won't it stop? Why won't the images and thoughts stop whirring round my head? They all came back to one singular thought.
He can't leave me.
I have cyclothymic disorder, a form of bipolar. I didn't know it then, as I wept on my Mum’s bathroom floor pleading with my own thoughts. Back then I just thought I was in love with the only person who would ever love me. He was my first love and at that time I thought my only love. I thought about him every second of every day, every word I said, every action was for him. Is this what he wants? Is this how I should act? Will he love me more if I looked like this? I knew he didn't love me as much as I loved him, and it hurt.
The truth is, and I can see it now, is; that wasn't love, it was obsession.
After all my tears had fallen, and my thoughts began to ebb away, I got up. I wrapped the pregnancy test in loo roll wiped my eyes with the back of my hand and opened the door. No one was in, I was glad of this, I didn't want to act normal, I didn't want to pretend. I wanted to soak up all of this despair and fear and writhe in it. I wanted to feel every last bit of hate for myself. I hated that I wasn't enough for him. And I hated him too. I hated him so much I wanted to leave him and never see him again. A stab to my heart. No. I don't want that. I don't want him to go I can't bear it. I feel myself begin to crumble again and stop thoughts. Control it. Stop Laura. Stop. Control. Discipline. Stop. I take a few deep breaths, then a thought seeps through the barricade I'd built.
I have an excuse to talk to him.
I can call him and hear his voice. I can tell him and he will be there for me and i will realise I was being stupid for ever doubting his feelings. This will bring us closer together. I fumble through my bag for phone and dial.
It rings. And rings. And rings. Voicemail.
He didn't pick up cos he saw it was you calling my head tells me, and I believe it. Heat rises from my chest in anger but its met and quenched by despair. That's proof, I tell myself. You knew he was avoiding you. You knew he didn't love you and why would he? You’re sick and twisted, you wanted to be pregnant, cos you’re so pathetic. Your whole life revolves around a man. No matter how you try and pretend. It does. You’re pathetic.
An hour passed, more tears were shed, I stared at my phone, silently pleading for him to call back.
A year ago I would have kept calling and texting him, but I knew better now. I had to play it cool. But it was hard. I wanted to jump into my car and find him, plead with him to hold me, to touch me, to make it all okay.
My emotions flit from despair and longing to hatred. It wasn’t fair. I didn’t deserve to feel like this, why won’t he call me back? Why is he like this? I rarely call him- I’d trained myself to limit contact to texts and emails when he wasn’t around, that way I could think about what I’m saying, analyse it, give the best possible answer so that he would like me. He must know that it’s important. That’s why he is avoiding me. He knows. He knows I need him and he doesn’t want to deal with me and my issues. But what if he thinks it was a pocket dial or an accident? Yes! Of course! I’m such an idiot! That must be it, he wouldn’t ignore my call would he? I dial again. This is the last time I tell myself. I won’t call again. This is it.
It goes to voicemail.
The cycle begins again. I throw my phone against the wall and hug my legs, tears streaming, I shouldn’t have called him again. Why did I do this? The sting of his rejection was pulsing through me. I dig my nails into my legs, punishing myself for giving in, for being weak.
My phone! I wipe my eyes again, and run to wear I threw my phone. It’s him.
At work. What’s up? X
Relief washes over me. I feel stupid. He must think I’m such an idiot, pestering him while he’s at work. Does he think I know he’s at work? What if he isn’t at work? What if he is just saying it to make me stop calling him? I picture the scene in my head; sat in his room with his friends, playing video games. The phone rings, he sees my name and he ignores it. Then I call him again and he looks at his phone and rolls his eyes. He sighs then sends the text, thinking it will give him some peace.
I shake my head, I’m being stupid but it seems so realistic, I’ve seen him act this way before, and he has been drifting away from me…
I can’t think like this, why do I care more about his reactions than the fact I have just found out I’m pregnant? Why don’t I care? Why is he more important than me? Anger fills me again.
I close my eyes, take a few deep breaths, I have to think positive. I have to believe he is at work. I spend 20 minutes finding the perfect wording for my reply.
What are you doing tonight? Can we meet? X
The following hours are a blur, all I remember is waking up the next day with nails marks all over my legs and my lip was bleeding.
And he still hadn’t replied.
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