The Wall: Musings On A Summer’s Afternoon 

Today I felt like writing, and this is what came out. I hope that whatever you’re going through in life you may count your blessings and recognise your worth. Please know that you are wonderful and the world is a better place for you being in it. Even the darkest of nights are followed by the brightest of days. Hold on x

I close my eyes and let out the most cathartic sigh as the sun kisses my face. The cool grass beneath me warms instantly at the touch of my bare skin. Pure bliss. I breathe, smiling with my eyes closed and enjoy the peace and warmth that engulfs every last inch of my body. The joy of birdsong dances on the breeze and I can just about hear the faint sound of a lawn mower humming a few streets away. I love the smell of freshly cut grass in the summer!

Raising a restless leg to bend my knee, I instinctively swat away a fly and scratch at my skin as it tickles the sun-bleached hairs on my forearm. What a summer it’s been; my thoughts playfully transport me back to the beach, the sugary cocktails, those endless summer nights and pulse-racing memories that I still think about, just this morning in fact. Oh god…

Reaching out for my phone, I squint up at the screen to check my messages. My eyes take a few seconds to adjust from the brightness of the beautiful blue skies – not a cloud in sight! As my wifi flutters to maintain a connection from the end of the garden, I feel a coldness creep across my face and my phone screen creeps into view. No messages. Butt naked, I wave my phone life a traffic warden, up, above and around my head in an attempt to snatch just one bar of signal. I don’t want to get up, I’m too warm and peaceful in my cosy grassy corner. My chest and thighs have slightly reddened.

Several minutes pass perhaps, before I actually realise that I’ve fallen into shade as the sun creeps just beyond the garden wall out of sight. For fucks sake. So much for topping up my tan! I tilt my head back to glance up at the wall that’s stolen my heat; the crumbling, cracked, patched-up mess stands unashamedly proud of the darkness that it brings into my life. What a twat.

Absentmindedly frowning, I attempt to muster the enthusiasm to abandon my sunbathing, but find myself examining the wall instead. It’s so ugly. Old. Embarrassing. I’ve spent an absolute fortune on my house, to make it my own, a safe and welcoming space, my own little slice of paradise. And then this monstrosity greets me at the end of my immaculately manicured garden. How out of keeping with everything, how did I ever let it get so… disheveled, so unloved?

Once upon a time, I chose this house because of how secure and private it is. I remember how impressed I was by this wall, how tall and mighty, strong and steadfast it once looked to me. After the chaos and heartbreak when I moved in, I knew that no matter what shit happened in the world, my four walls would always keep me safe. My garden wall, a guardian angel, and I felt so safe, even when home alone. And now it’s this thread bear, crumbling mess, with tell-tale signs of dodgy DIY skills scattered across it, where I’ve good-heartedly attempted to patch up the wear and tear over the years.

My eyes trace the mismatching grout across a wide patch, perhaps a metre wide. The most defiant crack runs diagonally from just above the midline to the top of the wall and a lumpy, porridge-like clump of plaster looks like it’s about to drop off at the next winter storm that comes along. I remember rushing to B&Q last easter, buying a tub of pre-mixed plaster and stuffing it into the gaps in the wall with the back of my phone case, tears streaming, snot pooling, hair getting stuck to my face in the damn rain. After he cheated again my whole world fell apart; I couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep or think straight. It felt like I’d swallowed bricks. I was heavy and empty all at once. And looking at this damn wall pissed me off so much. The imperfections just seemed to become more evident than ever. I thought fixing it up might somehow, subconsciously, make one less thing feel so broken in my life, in my heart. But it wasn’t really a fix, I was just papering over the cracks. And I still felt like crap. But I tried.

I smile at the pathetic mess that my once mighty wall has become. Through best intentions, yet absentminded neglect. I should really knock the fucker down and get rid of it. But walls protect you right? They stop randoms from wandering into your kitchen and helping themselves to coffee. They keep everything special and meaningful in life safely tucked away from those with bad intentions. They stop you from losing everything that you’ve spent a lifetime earning, building, deserving. You can’t leave yourself exposed and vulnerable to the world.

I roll onto my side, close my eyes and inhale the coconut scent of my suncream. Just one more minute and I’ll get up. I weave my fingers into the grass nestled at the small of my back. I pluck a long glossy green strand. Snapping it, I twiddle the blade of grass as the moisture within dampens my fingertips.

I want the wall gone. My phone pings and I snap back to the moment. His name flashes up on my screen and my heart flutters as my fingers instinctively swipe to read his message. I only saw him this morning but I already miss his face. Those piercing blue eyes, the stubble on his jawline, the thought of my fingers tracing his collarbones and strong shoulders. I awaken. My trail of thought takes me off onto a tangent of dreamy summer holidays together, away from the shade of this ugly wall. I daydream of sharing lazy Sundays in bed together, heartwarming moments with each others family, of sipping tea in the garden with grandparents, having takeaways delivered to each others houses on a Friday night, choosing a puppy together, growing old. Fuck, I don’t want to get old. Can’t we just stay young and vibrant forever? Tanned. Insatiable.

It wasn’t a message? A heart emoji dots the corner of the text that I wrote to him earlier – “I hope your morning is going well.” That’s it? Nothing more to say? Maybe the rest of his response will come through when I’ve got full signal. Ping again. My heart sinks a little when I see that it’s not him. A friend has liked my post on insta, my gym bag and trainers aesthetically placed in the changing room for motivation. I absentmindedly find myself scrolling through to his profile, craving a fix, to feel closer to him. My eyes widen at the digits on the screen and I feel my teeth touch. Did his followers go up? He had three less yesterday, and he hasn’t uploaded anything in years so it’s not like he’s active.

“Babe, I’m really not into social media” his deep voice rings out so convincingly in my mind, still. How fucking refreshing to meet a man that feels confident in himself, knows what he wants in life and doesn’t chase attention or validation elsewhere. No thirst trapping online, just a handful of sentimental old photos on Instagram from several years ago with his friends from Uni, a couple birthday gatherings with his nan in a pink paper hat and a blurry snap of his favourite football boots and a pint of beer. My jaw and shoulders soften as I breathe into the reassurance of finding a good egg. Fuck, I still fancy him, even if he pisses me off. Where is he? Why hasn’t he text me back? An emoji isn’t a reply.

Snapping back to the moment, I anxiously sit upright and stare at the increase in his followers. My heart pounds and my throat clenches as I swallow. My fingers tremble as I tuck a fallen hair back behind my ear. I’m definitely not imagining this; he had 666 followers before. He looked me dead in the eye as he was driving. He laughed about 666, about being a demon as he drove us to his mums house in his dark blue shirt and sunglasses, looking as fuckable and at ease as ever. Not a care in the world. He definitely didn’t have 669. He would have remarked at it being 69; 69 isn’t unremarkable to us. My appetite tries to wander and I pull my thoughts back to task. Who has followed him?

Have I ever looked at his followers? In all the years we’ve been together I don’t think the thought has ever crossed my mind to go through the list. He never uses his social media. That was his life before us, what did it matter who he used to know or speak to? Suddenly I feel extremely unsettled by the thought of what I might find, of how trusting I was towards him from the get go. I took him at face value. A new chapter of life. New beginnings.

My lower back creaks and I shift my weight to my right butt cheek for relief as I realise I’m still stilling on the grass, butt naked in the shady corner of my garden – scrolling through my boyfriends social media followers like a damn mad woman! What has life come to? I’m being ridiculous. I know it. He loves me. I love him. We’re amazing together and more in love than ever. Yes he’s made mistakes in the past, it hurt me and I forgave him, but he’s sorry for it and he’s learned from it. We’re stronger than ever for having being through challenges along the way.

He chose me. He continues to choose me. When he could have anyone, he comes home to me and I see and appreciate that. I see the looks that he gets from other women. I see that he only has eyes for me, regardless of how they stare, giggle, gossip and point. He’s with me because he loves me. And I’m sat here being ridiculous, letting my emotions get the better of me for nothing. Doubting him, when I love him and trust him. What am I doing?

Firmly pressing the side of my phone, I lock my screen like a brat as I reach out a hand to steady myself on the wall to stand. My legs tingle with pins and needles from sitting so uncomfortably on the grass for so long, and a sharp pinch catches my finger as a notch in the wall draws blood. For fucks sake! That fucking wall! I irritatedly stick my finger into my mouth and suck away the piteous trail of blood that invades my tastebuds with its sudden metallic richness. I better not get the shits from sucking my dirty finger!

As a barrage of thoughts cloud my mind, I don’t become aware of the fact that I’ve actually held my phone up to my face, unlocked it and opened up to his followers as I feel the pulse of my finger tip throb against my tongue. Who the fuck is that!? Jessica beams at me in her bright pink bikini, at a beach club somewhere sunny. I click her name and her profile is all the more alluring. Long blonde hair, fake lashes, fake tan, huge tits, skin. So much skin. She’s half naked in every picture and seems to be on constant vacation. Beaches, hotel rooms, spas. How the fuck does she know my boyfriend? And why has she followed him? Clearly it’s a fake account, or a pay to play girl, looking to sign up subscribers to fund her next holiday.

Why the fuck has he followed her back!?

My heart races and I feel sick to the stomach as I click back to his followers list and Jessica retreats to just a profile picture. The threat to my relationship diminishes the smaller she becomes. But that’s when I realise she’s not alone. She’s joined by Amber, Kimberley, Sasha, Sarah, Emma and Amy! He’s never mentioned any of these girls names to me before. They’re not from his work. He didn’t have them in his friendship group from school, it was lanky Helen who married Steve and brunette Sophie with her three parrots, not blonde Jessica. I love lanky Helen! He could have a cult of a million parrot lovers following him and I wouldn’t bat a fucking eyelid or lose a wink of sleep. Just not any of these girls! They look like strippers, done up to the nines, with so much makeup and fake hair. He doesn’t even like that. They’re not his type, so why are they following him? He doesn’t let me wear makeup out, he says how despertae, trashy and attention seeking it is, so why would he be interested in these girls?

I push the knife deeper into my own heart as my fingers creep to the list of people that he follows. Please god don’t follow them back. My chest tightens and feels like it’s going to explode. My throat burns. My stomach bile is rising and I’m conscious of the fact I’m choking back tears. I swallow hard. Every. Single. Fucking. One. Of. Them. How could he! Why? For fucks sake! For fucks sake…

Jesus Christ! I can’t tell if they’re all super models or strippers – or maybe some kind of phenomenal hybrid super stripper, but there’s definitely some fucking 3024 next gen FaceTuning shit going on there. Surely nobody can be that perfect?? Has he managed to find all of the sexiest women on earth? They’re so fucking stunning. For fucks sake, look at her waist! She can’t be more than 22″ surely? Her body is insane! I fucking hate myself that at this gut-wrenching fucking moment, a part of me still wishes that I could look like her, if only for a day.

Women. Everywhere. The exact fucking opposite of what he tells me his type is. Everything he dismisses in an instant and tells me that I have nothing to worry about, all in one fucking place, like some fucked up collection or hit list. Who the fuck even is he? The man that lays his head in my lap, naked as I stroke his hair and listen to his bullshit chat. The time I’ve dedicated to him, the emotion, the money I’ve spent on him, with him, making memories that I thought would last a lifetime. And now I’m sickened by it all and want to erase it all from existence. Those sweet and tender moments spent together, where I’ve been vulnerable with him, taken my walls down and let him into the most deep and meaningful part of my being. Shown him all who I actually am. Loved him so selflessly and unconditionally. And all the while he’s been liking these girls half naked fucking thirst trap pictures. Last week! Yesterday. Two hours ago!!! My boyfriend doesn’t use social media. My boyfriend hasn’t text me back… but he’s liked Amy bending over at a cocktail bar in a slinky backless dress 9 minutes ago! You mother fucker!

How has this happened? How could he do this to me? I know him. I love him. No, I fucking hate him and he’s dead to me. He’s scum. A wolf in sheep’s clothing and I should have seen it coming a mile off. I allowed myself to become blinded by love. I ignored all of the red flags. The sarcastic jokes about other women, my god, they weren’t jokes at all; they were confessions all along and he fucking knew it, but laughed, and smiled and winked and fucking seduced me with his stupid fucking piece of shit charm. With his fucking perfect hair and three fillings in his teeth, smelling like a tarts boudoir, laughing at his own jokes like he’d sold out an arena. He drives his dad’s car and the fucker isn’t even funny! I was just humouring him! Twat!

The thought of him suddenly repulses me. I shiver with disgust and instantly acknowledge the need to piss. It’s as if his mask has finally slipped and I suddenly see him for what he actually is, for the very first time. His burger nips invade my thoughts, along with his hairy shoulders that he makes me wax for him, well now he can go grow a fucking forest for Jessica. The fucking cunt! I told him that his insecurities didn’t bother me, that he was perfect just as he was and didn’t have to change anything about himself for anyone. But he wasn’t trying to look his best for me, he was doing it for them. For fucks sake! I’m such a fool!

My knees fall from beneath me in a single breath and I hit the grass like a sack of shit. That’s two bruised knees and twisted ankles in the morning to look forward to. Well if he lives happily ever after and has babies with Jessica the damn child will think it’s adopted because it’ll be totally unrecognisable without all of that silicone and filler. And the fact that I help him dye his hair and beard black every Wednesday because he kicks off warm tones, he can fuck the fuck off with that! He can get Jessica to groom him instead, and see what she thinks of him then when he’s less than perfect. Fuck he looks hot with a tan against his dark hair and light eyes, but my bathroom tiles are going to look so much better without having to scrub the shit out of them to get the dye off. I’ve basically extended the life span of my wrists by 4yrs by the time I’m in my 80’s from all the scrubbing I won’t have to do anymore.

I’m going to be a bitter old spinster with a broken heart and die alone now, aren’t I? That bastards imperfections are what made him seem human and so lovable to me; I knew nobody else could see his insecurities, and that’s what allowed me to love such a god like specimen rather than cast him into the fuck boy pool and swipe on. He took his walls down for me and let me in, and in turn I did the same for him. Only it turns out that he’s been letting more into himself than the channel tunnel on a bank holiday weekend.

In my very naked, crumpled pile of limbs on the grass, I sob uncontrollably as the realisation hits me that we were supposed to grow old together. The thought of missing Christmas together steals every last drop of oxygen from my lungs. Every future plan shatters in an instant, our sheer existence as a couple erased and my soul feels heavy. My mind is a storm of frantic hatred and the relentless pain of love. Why did I let him do this to me? Why did I think that he could ever be any different from other guys? The fucker even looked sexy when he sleeps – having pumped biceps without tensing should have been a massive warning sign! Who the fuck doesn’t crack a double chin, dribble and fart in their sleep? He’s a fucking robot. He could never have been real. Or mine. It was destined to fail from the get go.

Ugly crying as I shriek through my tears, I disrupt the river of snot from my nose momentarily by dragging the back of my wrist against it as anger pulls me onto my hands and bastardly tender knees. The desire for revenge gives me the strength to consider running into the house and burning every single one of his possessions, or better yet – pissing on them and putting them into a trash bag to throw onto the pavement for all of the neighbours to see! I’ll take a baseball bat to his coffee cup, the matching bone china his and hers that we got last summer. Shit in his golf bag. Use his toothbrush to clean his skid marks off of my toilet! The fucker never cleans up after himself. But now my house will be an oasis of calm. No more pubes and wet towels strewn across the floor. No more pandering to his every need and showering him with love an affection. I’ll get a fucking cat instead. Cats don’t fuck Jessica’s!

And with that, my ugly crying turns to a giggle, and a stupid smile creeps across my face as a weight lifts from my shoulders somehow. I know what this is. Deep down, I’m relieved. He is everything that I didn’t ever want him to be, and he always has been. I shut it out, ignored the red flags and lived on eggshells, afraid to rock the boat or turn him off. I wasn’t happy, I was petrified to lose him. I actually thought that I was the lucky one to have found him. I knew I’d never be enough for him, he never made me feel loved or secure and that’s why I took control of everything else that I could in order to cope – the obsessive organisation, calorie counting, tireless fitness routines. I felt so lost and helpless to his charms, it was only a matter of time before it failed. But what a fucking way to fail.

We didn’t burn out in a blaze of glory, we faded away miserably because he failed to ever show up for me on any kind of level. How could he ever learn to love me for who I am when every woman with a pout and a pulse caught his eye? That isn’t love. It’s nothing more than superficial lust, which won’t stand a chance against the sands of time. He’s not going to be getting this fine piece of ass on a zimmer frame in 40yrs, he can go fuck himself. His loss.

And as I stand triumphantly, throw my shoulders back and turn my face up to the sky, a flash of sunshine playfully skims over the top of the wall and kisses both of my eyes. I squint towards the crumbling mess of my once magnificent boundary line, and for the very first time I notice the dainty little wildflowers scattered in colourful bursts throughout the cracks in the wall. The beauty of imperfection warms me beyond the kisses from the sun. It touches my swollen heart and gives me hope for all that is beautiful and true. If these little flowers can survive in the harshest of environments, through the relentless wind and rain, in a shoddy grout job and between the broken pieces of brick, then surely something beautiful can come from every misery? No matter how bleak it may seem. And just as he’s dead to me, he’s made way in my life for me to surround myself with those who truly love me for who I am.

Why do I want to make the wall bigger and stronger than ever before when it’s so obviously failing? Why do I want to protect my peace at all costs knowing it could come at the expense of ever seeing the sun again? I met my ex when he saw me over that wall. And the pain that he has caused me by letting me down hurts my soul. But that’s life. Right?

With a life affirming sigh, I tuck my hair behind my ear, flick off a leaf that had stuck itself to my left tit and turn my back onto the wall as I hobble back into the house. No more fucking shit. Tomorrow I’ll call the damn builder and deal with that wall once and for all.