Fairytale

Fairytale

 

Dear Deidre,

 

It all started out so well. There was so much—hope. When I was a girl, I believed in a rainbows, unicorns, princes and fairytales. As it turns out, how wrong I was. How wrong I was.

 

When I was little, I recall reading stories of great daring and adventure. Of dragons vanquished, of wrongs righted. And have princes rescuing princesses. I had naively assumed life would be the same. But where is my prince? Where is my prince?

 

At school, I avoided boys and immersed myself largely in reading. I did not get the best grades ever when I left, but I did well enough to have some prospects.

 

As I grew and I started to meet men, I realised that life was no fairytale. My first boyfriend when I was 17 was very handsome and intelligent. His name was David. I thought he was the one. Made all kinds of plans for our future, had all kinds of dreams. But he only wanted one thing. And when he eventually got it, we were over.

 

I cried for days. Maybe even weeks. Probably not months, but it’s plausible. But I eventually started to heal. Like a bird whose wings had been broken—but not forever—I hoped to fly again.

 

Starting to drink as a coping mechanism after this initial break-up, in truth I never really stopped. I felt like I was in control, at first. I’d say to myself it was ‘just to take the edge off’. Eventually I met another man, Dougie. He was older than me this time, at first almost paternal. I had thought, gentle. But again, this was no romance. This was no fairytale. The first time he hit me, he was so sorry. I convinced myself it was a one off. Maybe convinced is the wrong word. Perhaps deluded. Feasibly even lied. Then it happened again. And again. And again.

 

So, the drinking continued. Maybe continued is the wrong word too? Lets say escalated. It blotted thins out, pushed things out. For a while, at least. But they always came back, from somewhere.

 

I met another man. His name was Ricky. He was calm and kind, so much more patient than the other one. But I stayed with Dougie. Blind faith? Fear? I’m honestly not sure. Anyway, eventually I was pregnant and not sure whose it was. It became academic anyway, because after another of Dougie’ ‘protective little chats’, I lost the baby.

 

Finally the penny dropped with Dougie. But it was too late with Ricky. And I’d lost the potential to be a mother. So, all that was left was the drink. Drinking to forget. Drinking to survive.

 

Hence I ask, where is my future? Where is my prince? Where is my happy ending? Where is my fairytale?

Yours sincerely,

Stephanie Q.