What do we do when the people we love lie to us? Does love let us excuse people that really don't deserve being excused? Of course it does. Because love makes us more readily surpass all negativity, all problems, and all mistakes- purely just because we are in love with the person who makes these mistakes, and it is part of the reason that we do love them. Loving someone is an act of forgiving. But at what point is it that acts of forgiveness are turned into platforms for ignorance? Is loving someones flaws a blissful act of ignorance and diversion from confrontation? Do we use each other as excuses?
I couldn't tell you. By now, you should probably be asking me why I didn't just resist the temptation to talk to the person that was always available. You should be asking me why I didn't just stop full stop - 'Carla, it's getting weird. Aren't you seeing this?' You wouldn't be the first.
I wasn't seeing it, and I continued to speak to him. Days went by, then weeks, then months. From the minute I woke up to the minute I fell asleep, there wasn’t a moment that went by without regular contact. Continual communication, like an angel on your shoulder, or a weird and twisted robotic dog that stayed by your side continually. It was like when you first embark on a relationship, or meet that one person you just can't get out of your head. You never want your time with them to end, you never want to them to leave, and when they do the room immediately appears dimmer. This started in the February. By the summer, we were ‘best friends.’ Every slightly momentous event, every secret, every whisper of gossip or a story or a memory, all twistedly conveyed into that horrifically cheerful Apple speech bubble. Thank god for free iMessage, is all I’m saying.
But, like the twisted little sick girl I am (or the stereotypical myth that girls are perpetually attracted to the 'bad boy', if you believe that) things didn’t diverge further into romantic territory until I found out my first piece of incriminating evidence. It was still purely platonic - but things were changing. It wasn't as easy as it first was, and the lines between reality and fantasy were obscuring.
By September, one by one, Jonathan’s social media platforms disappeared. He told me this was due to the fact that he was recording an album, and his management wouldn’t let him have other pieces of himself on the web (didn't I tell you? he was now a professional musician. God, I could kick myself). I got snippets of the songs – his voice was one of the reasons that I fell for him in the first place. Soon there were pictures of recording studios on Instagram, snippets of songs being played in the background with a man speaking over them in my inbox, and self recorded acoustics in my iPod. Artist - Jonathan Blair Charles Pullar.
Something wasn’t sitting right with me. Here is the plot clincher, so you should sit tight; Jonathan had told me during our early conversations, those halcyon days, that he suffered from Bipolar disorder. He asked that this didn’t stop me from talking to him, but with a family history of mental illness, I wasn’t swayed. I was attracted. With this came the bones tumbling out the cupboard – some days, there were mood swings, or the recounting previous suicide attempts, days of silence followed by days of non-stop chatter. Vitally, at this point, it was only bones. The whole ugly carcass was still inside, hidden from view. And I didn't look for it. (This part will contribute massively in the next chapter, but I felt like you needed to know it now before it became too deep in the mud. Oh, and by the way, did you know that 3% of male internet users are psychopaths?)
In November I went to see a Gabrielle Aplin gig in Glasgow. As I entered the dark floors of the Oran Mor, I heard a familiar voice resonating from the stage through the wall. It was the song that Jonathan had sent me as his own – which meant that Jonathan was on stage. Jonathan was here, in Glasgow. He was in the room right next to me. It was his voice. It was his song. And I was finally going to meet him; this beautiful boy who had enraptured me in his presence for the past nine months, here to surprise me (for that's what it must be - he always knew I was coming to see Gabrielle play) I can’t explain the level of excitement pulsating through me as I waited to walk through. It was the same feeling that comes before you open the SQA envelope with your higher results; the pause, the baited breath, the bile in your throat. You know that in your hands is the key to your future; the person standing behind this wall on that stage determined mine.
I say that I cannot assign words to describe how I felt as I waited behind that wall, blinded, but not deafened. I was a swelling vat of pressure, with my emotions paramounting into a mixture of fear and ecstasy, the culmination of which waiting to be popped like a balloon. I was either going to cry or vomit, or maybe even both. The moment came. I walked forward, into the dark passageway to make my way to the stage, and...
You'll just have to wait until next Tuesday to find out.