I had pinned a gun to my head. I had pressed the gun so hard into my skin that I felt the bullet piercing through my skull before I even pulled the trigger. I had never felt this hurt in all my 26 years. It wasn’t always like this. I wasn’t always this torn and broken. As a matter of fact, I was one of the happiest people that walked this Earth.

Yes, like everyone, I had my fair share of bad days. On some days waking up would feel like a chore, but, like the big girl that I was, I would wake up and face the daily challenges. To sum it up, I was content with myself and my life in general. That was until I met him, of course. I curse the day I laid my eyes on him.

At first he was all of that. He was the “perfect” guy for me. He would take me out on dates, surprise me with lunch at work, occasionally send me flowers pinned with the cutest love notes, call me throughout the day, and the list goes on and on, and to be honest, I enjoyed all of that.

Two years down the line, he changed. It started with him working late nights on weekends, then it went on to him coming home reeking of women’s perfumes, then it was his shirts having lipstick stains. That happened continuously until I caught him red-handed, gracefully having lunch with one of his side-girlfriends at the mall. Of course, he apologised. I hoped that he would change his ways and, to be honest, I truly believed that I was the reason for his adulterous ways.

I started changing myself and my way of life. He said that he had cheated on me because I wore weaves, so I stopped wearing weaves. He said it was because I wore too much makeup, so I stopped. He said it was because I liked wearing revealing clothes, so I stopped. He said it was because I would occasionally go out with my friends and so I stopped, but he continued cheating.

Every time I caught him cheating, he would have an excuse to justify it. At times he would shift the blame onto me. I would end up apologising for not being enough.

Today I stood on the hospital roof, seven months pregnant, on HIV treatment with a damaged and battered soul that has lost love for itself holding a gun to my head.

“Don’t do it, he’s not worth it,” were the last words I heard before I pulled the trigger, as a means of putting an end to the misery caused by holding onto a man that had long fallen out of love with me.

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