She was young and hot. And I wanted to hurt her.
In the weeks following my discovery of my boyfriend’s affair, I had only two thoughts in my head — I hadn’t been good enough, and I needed her to feel my pain.
I needed her to feel exactly how I felt when I read their intimate messages.
I needed her to know what it felt like to listen to the person I loved tell me after four years that he was choosing someone else.
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I needed her to feel the disrespect, the utter humiliation, and the betrayal of being cheated on.
I needed her to know she was the reason the life I had built was falling apart like a delicate house of cards.
I wanted to hurt her, and I wanted to hurt him, so I threatened to contact her and ask her why she had to ruin what we had. My boyfriend begged me not to make things worse.
I needed someone to blame, and she was it.
Amid the emotional frenzy, I needed to blame someone. It was easier to villainise the other woman rather than admit who the real villain was — my boyfriend.
She was everything I was not — young, tall, skinny, straight hair, foreign. And even though my friends told me she was nowhere as pretty as me, I knew that was not the case.
It didn’t matter how many times they told me he was stupid to let a woman like me go; it didn’t change how I felt — not good enough, unloveable, and unattractive.
Looking at her photos, it was clear why he chose her over me. She was the woman he had tried to mould me into.
Someone who didn’t have flabby arms, or curly, frizzy hair. Someone who liked to party and was comfortable wearing short clothes. Someone who wasn’t a safe option.
Instead of acknowledging that my boyfriend was a lying, cheating jerk, I took the easier way out. I couldn’t hate the one I loved. So I turned my hatred towards her.