I penned this anonymously as a few words to my ex who left me for her ex (not the same ex as my School Leavers post) — who’s life I saved while he was suicidal — so early on in our relationship, yet so long into me desiring her in every way.
Isn’t it funny that I wanted you, right from the day that we met?
Isn’t it funny that I got you, that I made you MY baby girl?
Isn’t it funny that I needed you most, and you weren’t there?
Isn’t it funny that I messaged, you read and you ignored me?
Isn’t it funny that I didn’t mean as much to you as your ex?
Isn’t it funny that I saved his life for you while he called me ugly?
Isn’t it funny that I am now single, and you’re HIS baby girl.
Isn’t it funny?
Though it’s taken me a lot to share something so raw here, I figured I’d share it so people in my position know that they’re not alone. It will be okay, you will be okay.
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Earlier this year, back on 18 March, I had to go to Bridlington for training to volunteer as a Tour Maker for the Tour de Yorkshire 2018 in Scarborough. It was an early morning on the train — a journey I’d completed hundreds of times before, as my ex-girlfriend lives in Bridlington — and one that brought back many memories.
When I got there, I walked into Bridlington Spa and it seemed oddly, I don’t know… eerily quiet, almost silent. I wandered to the reception desk, and asked where the Tour Maker training was. In what felt like what I can only describe as a verbal beheading, the lady behind the desk went “it’s been cancelled”.
“Shit”, I thought, as I pondered over what I was going to do next. I wandered down to Bridlington Promenade — another place with memories that meant I may or may not have shed a tear or two — and took one very blurry photo amongst the 30mph gusts that were pushing me away, a stark contrast to my ex and I pulling one-another along the tiled ground as we ran it together in days gone by.
I figured it wouldn’t be wise of me to hang around an eerily quiet Bridlington all day, while all of the locals were tucked up nice and warm inside. Remembering that I had to change at Scarborough railway station, I figured I’d love myself by giving myself the time to explore Scarborough on my own terms and at my own pace, something I’d never done before.
A 37-minute train journey later, through the picturesque villages of Bempton and Humanby, and the small seaside town of Filey, I was in Scarborough. I’m not going to commentate my day in this post (I may at a later date, depending on what people want to see), but I’ll simply let the photographs I took do the talking. As they say, a photograph speaks a thousand words.
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