I am devastated.
I have a history of self-harm. I have a history of depression. I have had people bully me for that. I don’t like it.
There are 3 people alive that I have told everything to. One of them will read this. One of them doesn’t need to read this. One of them hates me.
My closest friend is one of the first people I go to when things are bad. they trust me. I trust them. they care. I care. They know. I know.
Tonight, I’ve found out that they’ve been saying things. More than one person has been told my entire life story, including the self-harm, depression and bullying. He’s backstabbed me, and doesn’t even have the dignity to own up to it when I confronted him. I’ve found out what he’s been saying about me behind my back: childish, lonely, easily-manipulated, friendless. And I know that he’s told at least two people.
I fear he’s told more.
I know he’s told more.
I trusted him. It takes a lot for me to trust someone.
It meant nothing. The whole thing – every word, every secret, every fear and confession – were just bullets for his gun, blades for his knife. Suddenly, the person who I trusted, who PROMISED me that they’d keep my secrets safe is my biggest vulnerability. He even know about this blog.
I trusted him. I believed that he wouldn’t tell anyone. He told me he had experienced people backstabbing him before. He told me he knew what it was like, and he told me he wouldn’t put me through that. And where are we now? I thought he meant it, I thought he was honest and serious, and yet behind my back for months and months, he’s said horrible, vicious things about me. He’s said dreadful things, terrifying things, cruel things. He’s said true things.
Confronting him? No, maybe that wasn’t the smartest move I’ve ever made. Maybe I should have kept my mout shut, kept my brain from leaping to conclusions. But it took just one person to say it, and suddenly everything clicked into place. Everything that had puzzled me, and supposedly puzzled him, suddenly made an awful but undoubtedly real kind of sense. So I confronted him, by text, because I’m too much of a wimp to have called him. My excuse; well, it was 02:00, but I could have called. I should have called. And now he hates me. Now he won’t speak to me again. Is that for the best? Is it what I wanted? No, of course not. And he knows stuff – a lot of stuff. He hasn’t hesitated telling some, so what’s stopping him from telling others?
Is it too late to say I’m sorry? I suppose so. The damage has been done. I don’t think he’ll want to speak to me again now. I can’t blame him. But I hate him. Why would he do that to me? It’s not as if he didn’t know how confidential that information was, how much it meant to me. I’d told him again and again and again, and before I told him anything new, and after I’d finished telling him something new, that he wasn’t to tell anyone what I’d told him. One person said that he’d told them within two hours of me telling him. Two hours. 7200 seconds. 120 minutes. Just a handful of inhalations and exhalations, and everything that was so important to me had already been shared around a little group. I feel like the kid in school, who is always left out of the notepassing during class; the kid who is the basis of all the jokes; the kid who people pretend to be nice to, just to laugh at the end of break time, just to make a fool out of.
Today was a fairytale – my fairytale. But fairytales don’t always have happy endings. My fairytale doesn’t have a happy ending.