Grief

Abortion was only supposed to happen to other people. I was never meant to get knocked up at this stage of my life. I said I didn’t feel guilt, and that was the truth. I know on a logical, intellectual level that I’d made the right decision for myself. But I’m hurting. I’m grieving.  From time to time the question still pops up: what if I’d kept it?

His sister can’t have kids. She and her husband have done the whole IVF thing with no success. I did seriously consider carrying the baby to term and adopting it to her. She even said she would fly me to Australia and pay for my medical care. I had a few good reasons to say yes: I’d be giving her the gift of a child; I could escape Hong Kong, albeit only temporarily; I’d get to experience pregnancy, a topic I’d always been fascinated about. I ultimately decided against it, however. My excuses were plenty: I could not handle the constant fatigue, nausea, and bloatedness; I was (and still am) abusing laxative which couldn’t have been good for the foetus; my baby would probably have depression, eating disorders and a bunch of other mental health issues; and most importantly, given how horrible the world is, and how many kids are already in the system needing loving forever homes, I cannot justify adding to the problem.

But I can’t lie to myself. A part of me wants it – wants the whole thing to work out like it should. Wants to settle down and come home to the same guy every day. Wants to have it all – career, family, kids. Wants to raise them to be useful members of society. Wants to have something to love, to call my own. Wants the perfect life. I’m greedy, and greed is a sin.

I am angry, mostly at myself. For being such a failure, such a burden. I also have a lot of displaced anger. If my mum was rich, she would be able to help me with a new baby. If the ex had wanted to be in this together with me, we would have made it work. I see pictures of babies, of happy parents; I hear of people talking about what a joy their children are. I’m jealous. These people are so lucky and they don’t even realise it. To have the privilege to be parents, to be able to afford kids. Maybe I could have done it, the hormonal side of me thinks. Now I’ll never find out.

I think back on the boys I’ve dated, gotten attached and opened my heart to. Boys who have passed me over for someone else – someone better, perhaps. D is getting married – Facebook said so; he never told me in person. P is now with a professional makeup artist / belly dancer – apparently she is his soulmate. As for T? God knows what he’s been up to. All the wrong people, all the frogs I’ve had to kiss. I feel so unlovable, so disposable. Replaceable. What if I disappeared? Was found dead? Would they cry for me?

I hate to admit it, but I am one of those people who need a boyfriend to be happy. One hundred percent content. It doesn’t matter I have amazing friends, that I have family who love me. I want – need – to know that I can be enough for someone, that I am his world. I want to love and be loved – romantically. Completely. Wholeheartedly.

“That, I think, is the greatest tragedy of love, that those who love and long to be loved are not always loved in return, that the warm love that fills a human heart is sometimes left to curdle and dry up or turn bitter and sour for lack of anyone to give it to, or else it is lavished in vain upon someone who does not want or even deserve it.”
-Emily Purdy, in Mary and Elizabeth-

The Nice Guy, The F* Buddy

“I’m not GI Jane, I’m attachment Barbie.”
-Teddy, Grey’s Anatomy-

***

It started off pretty harmless. We were hanging out at his place when out of the blue he leaned in to kiss me. On the lips. At the same time his hand wandered down to my thigh. I hadn’t planned on doing anything with him that night, but oh it felt so good. His touches sent shivers down my spine. It was like I was with my ex again. So I let him feel me up and down, and one thing led to another. I called it rebound sex at the time. I was convinced I wouldn’t get attached, because a) I wasn’t turned on by his physical appaerance in the slightest (he is too tall, he has a beard, he looks older than he is), and b) I couldn’t imagine ever getting over my ex – the boy I was supposed to marry, the boy with whom I was meant to be.

How very wrong was I.

The next day came, and I thought nothing of it. “See, I’m fine. I can do this,” I told myself firmly. “We’re going to be f* buddies at most.” The following Sunday, we made plans to go horse riding together. Long story short, I fell off (I was tired and out of practice) and passed out as soon as I’d hit the ground. He ended up taking me to the emergency room and holding my hands throughout the whole ordeal. For the next three days I stayed with him under doctor’s recommendation. He fed me and looked after me, even though he was down with a cold himself and wasn’t feeling his best.

From this point on, everything changed.

We continued to spend every weekend together. The more I got to know him, the more I adored him. He was mature, responsible and reliable. He cooked, he cleaned, he picked me up in his ute, he paid for everything when we went out. And the sex – it was incredible. Mind-blowing. Way better than anything I’d experienced.

History was repeating itself right in front of my eyes, yet I was too blind to acknowledge it. Like with the ex, he and I got physical before we had a chance to know each other properly. Like with the ex, I wasn’t attracted to him to start with. And like with the ex, I got way too attached than I’d intended. As thoughts of the ex turned into thoughts of him, I knew I was screwed. “The best way to get over someone is to get under someone else.” I believe it now.

I wanted so badly for a miracle to happen, for God to be on my side. Had I been able to get a job in the city, I would be able to stay, and he and I would live happily ever after. Something like that. But no, that didn’t happen. My visa ran out, and I had to go home. Leaving him was the hardest part, although I didn’t let it show.

“It was really fun having you around in the last two months. Keep in touch.” Those were his words. Then one last kiss, and that was that. So casual. So nonchalant. “Thank you for everything.” These were mine, equally cold and distant. No, I’m not that hurt, was the message I was trying to convey. I’ve done this before. It’s not a big deal.

After he’d left, I went and bought myself a glass of red wine at the bar. I let my tears flow. I pretended each drop was a part of him, and through my eyes he departed from my soul. There was no point hanging on. It would only bring hurt. Better to end the story on a high note, to leave a good memory.

“What’s meant to be will always find its way.” I’m still praying he’ll come back to me, although if he doesn’t I’d wish him the best. He deserves someone really really amazing.