To:

Ladies and gorgeous gents, I've finally got it. And no, it ain't sex.

At last, I've been through the catharsis I've been needing for so long.

And oh, before I forget, Happy St Valentine's.. hope you all have a truly lovely day with loved ones. Even though I do wish that this Catholic feast day in honour of the rather ambiguous Saint Valentinus had never been mingled with the concept of courtly love from the High Middle Ages and transformed into the contrived, commercialised so-called celebration we know today.

All this while there have been so many things I've witheld from blogging about, mainly because blogs are public spaces, and for fear of hurting/offending people. Oh well, this time I think I do owe it to myself to write unfearingly about my life, and perhaps you might finally have enough guts to read this post in its entirety, unlike how you couldn't even find the balls to sort us out when you should have.

But don't get me wrong. I promise this post won't degenerate into some mindless vitriolic righteous ranting about how I want to feed you your own testicles and slowly scoop out your heart with a blunt knife. You of all people should know I'm not the vindictive hateful angry type. Then why, oh why didn't you say all those weeks, months ago when you had so many chances that you just weren't that into me anymore? What were you so afraid of?

My Valentine's Day started at midnight, with an immediate V Day wish and kiss from Lynn. Some general best wishes for and from other friends. Then you came online and it emerged that something's been on your mind for a while. You mentioned the "JD period" and I thought, whoaa isn't this all in the distant past?

You didn't realise that sometimes I acted, or said things that gave the impression that somethings did not matter as much to me, merely to make you feel less bad, even if I hurt myself saying them. The talk in the park? When I said I wasn't ready for a serious relationship and didn't want anything else to interrupt my first year? Only because you were feeling rotten and said you weren't ready. My own willing lies turned bittersweet in memory. And as if there was no end to what I had to go through, you left me agonising for a few hours that I had totally ruined any chances of "us" ever happening because of those words.

I remember sitting here, heartrate going right up, shocked numb and literally shaking. In the end, you didn't even know why you said that. And that was cruel, as if you hadn't hurt me enough.

You were callous and inconsiderate to the extent of being a total arsehole. But now I say, thank you. Thank you, for forcing it out into the open. Thank you, for trying to explain, in your own way, why you did what you did. So after months of being messed up and totally un-myself, I can now move on. Stop apologising (as you always do) for everything that happened - don't. I'm not sorry that any of it happened, and I'm the one who went through far more than you did. I have to believe that what I've stood for, lived for in the last few months meant something, and I can't believe that if I ever felt sorry it was such a waste. That would mean my life's been a waste during that period and I don't ever want to think that way. You see, sometimes it is the pain as well as the joy that reminds us we're still alive. Not to long ago, you said that when I was happy, I made people around me happy. However true that comment is, it's not things like new clothes or footwear that made me truly happy, but you. A smile, a light compliment, how we somehow always manage to text or call each other at the same time - these things made me happy.

So - there were some feelings on your part after all. It's ok, I can accept that whatever feelings that existed were just... not enough.

I can't find it in myself to hate you. Or at least throw my old moulding slipper at you or put in a half-hearted attempt at throttling. Hence I suppose this last go of digging at a wound that's starting to scab over, last chance to write some things that I couldn't say before I hold my peace forever.

Kahlil Gibran's The Prophet was a simple gift. That's all. The two reasons why I gave it to you the previous Wednesday: I didn't know how you'd react if it was a Valentine's present, and you were feeling down the previous evening. I'd been meaning to give it to you for sometime. It's just one of those books that can change a person's outlook on life - I know it changed mine, at any rate. Go read wtih an open mind; learn to accept and love yourself, faults with the goodness, and then perhaps you'll be more aware of the consequences of your actions on others and not screw up the next time.

Another wonderful person told me, broken hearts are what gives us strength and understanding and compassion - a heart never broken is pristine and sterile and will never know the joy of being imperfect.

And despite all that had happened, I had a Valentine's dinner with a lovely guy who appreciates me for who I am and tells I'm wonderful. I've been given three things. A CD of Steven Isserlis playing Boccherini ("because you're allowed to give friends things on Valentine's Day", remember?) which I have yet to listen to, though I'm sure it'll be some fantastic music. A gorgeous, long-stemmed rose, the perfect lush red with broad green leaves and no thorns. And best of all, the gift of unfailing friendship.

In the end, I did manage to stay smiling throughout Valentine's Day. Had a good, dreamless sleep probably because I was completely knackered. Met up with Junie for lunch at Cafe Muse, and from there headed into town. There is a good reason why it's called retail therapy. Got some stuff from MNG and Boots, indulged in another favourite girly thing-to-do - perfume sniffing and critique. Cooed over soft toys at the Disney store and resolutely walked pass HMV. A cushion because I think I'll need something to hug over the next few nights. Also some clothes from Primark, because I realised that in life and love, what truly matters is not the name or image on the outside but that it fits.

Called it a day after some fries and Coke at Burger King. Thankfully there were no kissing cuddling couples on the bus. Had a long, hot shower and sloughed off the old dead skin. My right eye's developed a double eyelid from a little crying and serious sleep deprivation, though the left eye's stayed single. The irony of the situation is, of course, that you're the only one I know with one double and one "sepet" eye. I'm now fixing Junie's MNG scarf while listening to some Wagner, and I realise I'd stopped knitting after that black and silver scarf. There's a sense of peace and calm, the heart rate gradually coming down to normal, a feeling of lightness as if some burden has been lifted from me. This weekend, I'll take out my cello to play, and feel my heart singing again.