Since posting that infamous short story last week, I have noticed them lurking in my dreams. Not haunting me as such, but just there in the background. A reminder; the Ghost of Exes Past.
I think when ‘it’ happened, I was so horrified by my behaviour that I refused to even acknowlegde it. Instead of facing what I had done head on, I pushed it to the back of my mind (or more like pushed it off the cliff of my memories) and never let it resurface. I didn’t want to face it because I was embarressed. Of myself, of my actions, but also that I let myself feel such a way about someone. That I let them effect the the way that they did.
I was ashamed because what we had wasn’t real in the slightest, and I was so disppointed in myself for falling for the idea of a person, rather than looking beyond the rose-tinted glasses. I don’t know if this is hindsight, or if I always knew on some level, but it was never built to last. And I was humiliated when it didn’t.
When I published that short story, a bit of the shame came trickling back in. Not only in form of my dreams, replaying the experience over and over, but having people from my real life tell me, “I remember that night, too.” I kept that snapshot of my life hidden in the dark corners of my mind for so long, that I had almost forgotten the memories didn’t only reside in me, but in the minds of other’s as well.
It’s an… unusual feeling, to say the least. Uneasy.
And I feel so dumb, that this part of my life – and this particular person – happened so long ago, yet can still have such an impact on me. Despite the fact I’m so happy now, living a new life, with someone who more than deserves the love I give them, and who also reciprocates it, fully and gladly.
It’s hard to say that I’m still a little bit messed up by it, the night when everything and nothing happened all at once.
I’ve been avoiding Facebook more than usual, because the top post whenever I log in these days is always a memory to do with that time. We were such different people four years ago. Yet, the memories still haunt me, not only in my mind, but on social media, too.
It took a good six months of regular counselling after the fact for me to talk about that night. But even then I was sparing of the details. I guess that’s the thing about art; it lets you face things in a way you can’t quite do when talking about them out loud. Writing, painting, singing – whatever the medium, it allows you to detach yourself, yet completely live in that moment, again and again. It’s a very unique situation, but cathartic all the same.