The Fucking Blueberries
But how did this happen? How did I not see this coming? You’re desperately pleading with your therapist, feeling the first waves of shame roll in as confusion turns to self-blame: I should have known better.
You were already in love, she reminds you. That’s how it starts.
She was right. You were deeply in love by the time the ground beneath you started to shift. Up to that point, you were mesmerized by romantic gestures. You remember the first time you spent the night at his place and had to leave for work very early the next morning. The room was draped in a soft predawn glow, and the silence was broken only by the quiet rustle of sheets. He woke with you at 4:00 am. He gently helped you pack. Soon, as you showered and got yourself ready, you heard movement in the kitchen, and the smell of breakfast and coffee filled the air as he hurried to prepare food for your journey. Your heart melted, especially when he meticulously selected plump, ripe blueberries from the fridge. You looked down at the indigo pebbles as he handed you a small bag with a tiny piece of tape to seal them in. You felt the coolness of the berries with your fingers. You looked up, smiling. That bag of blueberries felt like, and embodied, immense care and love in its simplest form.
The fucking blueberries.
On another visit, you had gotten sick and spent the week with him as you endured fits of coughing and congestion. He said he didn’t mind getting sick; he wanted to take care of you. And he did. He woke up with you in the middle of the night when you woke from the coughing. He made sure you had water, tissues, or your medicine. You felt so cared for and loved. You hadnt felt that from someone in a very long time. You felt special.
I’m just waiting for the ring! Your best friend would joke. You’d smile and laugh with her, but in all honesty, you hoped there would be a ring. You began envisioning a future with him, daydreaming about rings and dresses and venues.
The fairytale preoccupied and distracted you.
When you think back to when things started to shift, you remember a fight about a picture of you in a bathing suit that you posted on your Instagram. You were visiting your sister, and the two of you were rekindling your relationship after a recent hardship, one he was aware of. You and your sister were enjoying a spa day, complete with cocktails and lying by the pool. You were wearing a new hat that captured the essence of your favorite cocktail, an Aperol spritz. The two of you were in full girl mode, sharing laughs and jokes, acting silly as only sisters do. Your sister took funny pictures of you in your new hat. She always made sure to capture the awkward and candid ones. More laughter ensued.
It was an innocent day, filled only with thoughts of your sister and the fun you two were having. That sense of lightness made you feel whole — buoyed by the idea that you had both a loving man and a mending relationship with your sister. Or so you thought, unaware of the emotional devastation that soon approached.
Later that night, he makes a comment about the picture you posted: you’re in a one-piece bathing suit, sitting by a pool, your head down, showing off your new hat, sun shining, holding an Aperol spritz. I guess we’re different. I don’t like to create opportunities for myself, he says in a tone you haven’t heard before. You’re confused, what? What do you mean?
It was passive-aggressive at best, but you could read between the lines.
I don’t like creating opportunities or drawing attention, he explains.
You’re a little confused: What are you referring to? Where is this coming from?
He slowly elaborates: You know, you like to draw attention. I wouldnt do that. You’re walking a fine line. You create opportunities, with what you post.
Is he saying…? Wait… What are you saying?
Until then, the tension was building slowly. His passive-aggressive comments skirted around the issue he had with you. The giddy feeling you had after a fun girls’ day with your sister was breaking down, becoming a distant memory.
Come on. Your whole vagina was showing, He says bluntly. It’s like you’re begging for attention. Tell me, how many guys liked and commented on that picture?
Shock hits you head-on. You feel yourself freeze, holding your breath. The accusation not only stuns you, but it also hurts and confuses you. Posting that picture, the idea he’s suggesting was the furthest thing from your mind. In fact, it wasn’t even on your mind. At all. Period. You’re bewildered by his accusation because it doesn’t align with your mindset or who you are. A wave of betrayal and pain washes over you — you feel vulnerable and alone, because someone you’ve trusted has shattered an innocent and vulnerable moment.
You start questioning yourself, wondering whether there’s a side to you you’re not aware of, or whether you’ve missed any red flags. Do I like attention? Am I seeking attention as he suggests? Is that what I’m doing? Despite this internal conflict, you know this isn’t about the picture or a genuine concern for your actions. It’s about control, a narrative being spun that you can’t recognize yourself in. What was an innocent moment for you and your sister has transformed into a deadly psychological warzone. The picture isnt the problem. The fact that you’re now questioning yourself and your reality is. This is the red flag you’ve missed.
It takes you a moment to gather yourself and respond to him. I…wait…I…what?… I don’t know. That isnt something I keep track of or look at. All you have is your word and your character, both of which won’t save you from this and the countless other future moments of being accused of infidelity that eventually come. He scoffs, Yeah. Right. Defeat. Your word means nothing. And your word is all you have.
This is when the ground beneath starts to shift. Grains of sand and tiny pebbles loosen until, eventually, a catastrophic landslide tears through.
After a natural disaster, once familiar landscapes are no longer identifiable. There is a new order of things. The moment with him is no different. Almost immediately, your emotions shift from ease and trust to anxiety and self-doubt. You begin to monitor what you say, and especially what you post, which, before this, were inspirational or funny quotes and numerous pictures of your dog, even photos of him expressing your love. This is when you censor yourself, shrinking in order to keep the peace. You try to prove yourself, hoping your love, loyalty, and character will be enough.
It takes countless fights far bigger than this to realize you’ll never be able to prove yourself. No amount of just being you is enough to demonstrate your mindset around infidelity, that you’re all in and committed only to him. He’s made up his mind about you.
Just as there is no fighting Mother Nature, there is no fighting this very unnatural disaster. There is devastation as far as the eye can see.
