This weekend passed we celebrated our son's first birthday. Or should I rather say I celebrated it. Because you were not there. And as with his birth, his first smile, his first tooth, his first EVERYTHING, I prepared myself for the fact that you will not be there to witness it and I was prepared for it, until this morning. This morning Leona Lewis's Run played on the radio.

How do I explain to people that I don't have photo's of you, because it's not about how much I hate you, but about how much I love you. That my hate and my love for you goes hand in hand. That I often think about how things could have been if you chose differently. That I hate myself for holding on to my wedding dress, as if I'm hoping for a wedding that is not going to happen. That I look at wedding pictures and think that it should ME in that dress. That I hate myself for being unable to stop loving a person that destroyed my life and any kind of possiblity of a normal relationship with any human being.



But it isn't me, and it never will be. By choosing yourself, you stole my perfect wedding day, you stole my son's father, you stole my ability to love and trust the person currently in my life. You stole my dignity, my confidence in other human beings, my dreams, my LIFE. And all that is left is this empty pit of darkness where my heart used to be and a continuous feeling of WHAT THE FUCK JUST HAPPENED TO ME? Isn't it suppose to go away as time pass? Is it understandable that there are days I wish you died instead of left, so I could kid myself that you had no choice in leaving? Am I not supposed to be relieved that I dodged this bullet?



When you proposed to me, you already made your vows. When a man proposes it means he is willing to commit, to stick with you through thick and thin, better or worse. To love you and cherish you and keep you safe from harm. It doesn't mean leaving when things get a little tough, with very few explanantions and a mountain of questions.



I'm quite successful in NOT thinking of you, even though our son is your mirror image. But for some reason Run makes me think of you and brings to the surface all the feelings I manage to hide so well. But this morning it played in the car, and I had nowhere to go. I was in someone elses car so I couldn't even change the station. So today you are in my head, and in my office and I refuse to cry over you, because you don't deserve tears and you don't deserve an ounce of the enormous grief you installed in me, a grief that hasn't weakened a fraction in the 20 months since you left. A grief to be continued in my son when one day I will have to explain to him that we were just not good enough for you.



So fuck you, Wikus Viljoen.