Before Everything Changed

It had been a few months since Stefan and I had properly split. We’d tried to turn ourselves into friends, and for a couple of months before that we’d drifted into friends-with-benefits, but I already knew the truth: I didn’t love him anymore.

At first, there was a strange kind of freedom in it. The sort people talk about when they finally step out of a long-held cage — blinking at open sky, stunned by how wide the world feels when the door finally opens. Even when the cage has been painful, it’s still familiar. And freedom, it turns out, can be terrifying.

The novelty didn’t last long.

As the nights grew longer and the mornings colder, loneliness crept in and settled deep in my bones, like damp you can’t quite dry out. I was living at my mum’s while waiting for my house to complete — a full house with my mum and three kids, constant noise, constant chaos. It was mayhem. But when the kids went to their dad’s and the house went quiet, I felt it. Properly felt it.

My kids were growing up.
Nineteen.
Seventeen.
Twelve.

Each of them slowly slipping into their own lives, their own routines, their own worlds. They didn’t need me in the frantic, consuming way they once had. I was proud of them — fiercely proud — but I missed them too.

And then came the night everything changed.

31st October.

My friend DC messaged me asking where I was. I told him I was at my caravan at Kingfisher Caravan Park in Ingoldmells. He replied straight away: I wasn’t escaping this. I was going to have to tell him.

Before I could argue, DC drove all the way from Manchester to Ingoldmells and picked me up.

I was terrified.

DC kept saying he could be there with me, but I told him no. I needed Ryan to talk to me, not feel like he was being ambushed. I didn’t want him thinking I was ganging up on him.

On the drive, DC asked about my new house. I told him it was great. Lexi hated sharing with Morgan, but the room was big enough to put a partition wall in, so we planned to do that. Normal conversation, like this wasn’t about to blow up my entire life.

He asked what I was going to say.

“The truth,” I said. “As much as I can. I’m still figuring it out myself.”

The truth was, I had no fucking clue what I was going to say.

DC suggested he come with me. I refused. He’s law enforcement, he’d already helped me enough — tracking, supporting, protecting. This was something I had to face alone.

“What if he hits you?” he asked.

“If he does,” I said, “I probably deserve it. But I don’t think he will.”

As we got close, I told DC I needed to ring Stefan. I didn’t want Stefan knowing DC was involved — I’d tell him I was in a taxi.

I rang.

“Hey Sue,” Stefan said. “You alright? How’s Skeggy? Cold, I bet.”

“I’m not there,” I said. “I’m on my way back to West Yorkshire. I need to do something.”

Then I told him the reason I was calling — before I blocked him.

“Why would you block me?” he asked.

“Because after this, you won’t want to talk to me again.”

He was confused. I told him to let me talk.

“I’m on my way to Mirfield to meet Ryan.”

“Why? He’s meeting Lis.”

“No,” I said. “He isn’t. I’m going to tell him I catfished him. He’s been talking to me this whole time.”

Silence.

“No,” Stefan said. “You can’t be. She loves him.”

“Yeah,” I said. “That’s why I’m sorry.”

Then it clicked for him.

“You… you’re Lis?”

I didn’t know how to explain why I hadn’t told him. I didn’t even understand it myself. It just went on. I fell for Ryan. I couldn’t see a way out.

“You should’ve told me,” Stefan said. “I could’ve helped.”

“Well,” I said, “that ship’s sailed.”

I told him I’d cried on the phone to Ryan the night before. He asked what I was doing after. I had no idea — Morgan and Toby were still in Skegness. I needed to go back.

“I’m nearly there,” I said. “I’ve got to go. I’m sorry, Stef.”

I hung up.

DC parked near the bridge. Before he left, he gave me his email details so I could log in and message Ryan to say I was there. He told me he’d be at Nat’s round the corner if I needed him, and that when I was done he’d take me to my mum’s or home.

I hugged him and watched him drive off.

My heart was pounding.

I logged into the email and Discord and sent Ryan a picture to say I was there.

When I saw him approaching, I turned away. I was sure he’d see me and turn back.

He didn’t.

“Sue?” he said.

“Ryan,” I replied. “I need to talk to you.”

He stopped dead, forcing his breathing down to stop a panic attack. I nearly backed out right there. I can’t do this to him, I thought.

But I had to.

He sat on the raised kerb. I stayed a few feet away.

“What I’m about to say,” I told him, “you won’t like. And you won’t want to talk to me after. But you haven’t been talking to Lis. You’ve been talking to me. All this time. I’m sorry. I don’t even know why I did it.”

The look on his face broke something in me.

“No,” he said. “I’ve spoken to her. Prove it.”

I tried. It took forever logging into the fake Gmail on my phone — I’d used a spare phone I’d left at the caravan. Eventually, I got in. I sent him a heart. Then another message: I’m sorry.

The way he looked at me… like I was nothing.

“Why?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I liked you. I fell for you. I tried to tell you last night — we were both crying. That’s why I came in person.”

I told him I wasn’t a good person. Then I stopped myself from crying. I had no right — he was the one I’d hurt.

I’d ripped his heart out and stamped on it.

I’d fallen head over heels in love with him. He hadn’t fallen for me — he’d fallen for Lis. A persona stitched together from pieces of Beth, DC’s madness, my sex drive… and Alicia’s face.

“Is she real?” he asked.

“She is,” I said. “But she has no idea about you.”

“Ring her,” he said.

I broke again.

“Ring her,” he repeated. “Or I will.”

So I did.

I told Alicia I’d used her image to catfish someone. She swore. Asked who.

“Stef?” she said. “Because if I see him—”

“No,” I said. “Ryan.”

She lost it. She’d told me not to do this back in March.

“I’m with him now,” I said. “He made me tell you.”

“You’d better tell me everything later,” she said.

She’ll fall out with me over this. I’ll lose her.

“Good,” Ryan said.

1st Nov 

The Night I Didn’t Think I’d Wake Up

Last night broke me.

I tried to explain to Ryan — properly explain — how sorry I was for what I’d done. I told him I never meant to hurt him, that I’d tried so many times to stop, but instead my feelings just grew. I told him I fell for him. He said I could have told him.

And he was right.

I wish I had.
But why did he have to be a decent man?

He was kind. Genuine. Honest.
And I was the opposite — a forty-year-old woman who had hurt one of her friends in the worst way possible.

The message I woke up to finished me:

“You really hurt me. That sweet guy you said I was… he’s not there anymore.”

I didn’t sleep.
I was up and down all night, replaying every word, every choice, every moment where I should have stopped and didn’t.

By morning, my head had decided something terrifyingly calm:
I needed it to end.

I took what I had at home.
Then I went out and bought more — wine, cigarettes, things I shouldn’t have bought.
I went to Thornes Park, to a quiet spot where hardly anyone went.

I drank.
I smoked.
I swallowed everything I had left.

I wanted to disappear.

I remember lying down, convinced I wouldn’t wake up.

But I did.

I woke up in resus at Pinderfields Hospital, nurses pressing on my chest, voices shouting:

“Miss, miss — wake up.”

I remember mumbling, “Let me sleep.”

Someone asked what I’d taken. I could barely open my eyes.

All I remember saying was:

“Ryan… tell him I’m sorry.”

Then I was sick.
Black sick. Over and over again.

There was a tube in my nose — I don’t remember them putting it in.
I was moved to a bare room: no plug sockets, no distractions, just a bed and a sofa.

I was sick so many times there was a pile of bowls at the end of the bed.

When the psych team came, I told them the truth. The ugly truth. The one I couldn’t escape.

“I’m such a bitch. I’m a horrible person. I catfished my friend. I really liked him. He only liked me as a friend and my feelings grew. I made a persona he fell for — not me. I told him and I hurt him. I deserve to die.”

They told me something I didn’t believe then — but maybe do now:

“A horrible person doesn’t feel guilt.”

They placed me on a 24-hour hold.

The police came later. Two female officers.
They told me they found me bleeding heavily in the park during the fireworks patrol.
They used my bank cards and ID to trace my mum. My ex told them where she lived.

Apparently he sent his love and hoped I was okay.

Mum went to my house to look after the kids.
They were told I’d stayed out, drunk too much, crashed at a friend’s.

I was moved to a psych ward room — nothing in it I could hurt myself with.
I was given medication and slept for thirteen hours without dreaming.

The next morning, the psych doctor told me I’d be discharged into my mum’s care.
Therapists would be involved. Nurses would check in.

At 1pm, Mum came in and hugged me.

At home, I told her everything.
About Ryan. About the catfishing. About how ashamed I was.

I said, “This is something a fourteen-year-old does, not a forty-year-old. What the hell is wrong with me?”

She told me I was struggling.
That the abuse, the house, the money, the cancer — none of it helped.

I insisted the cancer had nothing to do with it.

She disagreed.

And then she told me something I’ll never forget:

“I’m not losing you because of a fucking bloke.”

She grounded me.
At forty.

And honestly? I needed it.

On the 2nd, Stefan messaged me.
I told him I’d been in hospital, needed a shower, needed to change dressings.
He asked for a picture. I sent one.

He replied: “Bloody hell, babe.”

I told him I didn’t deserve to be here.

He told me I did.

I told him I hadn’t heard from Ryan.

And that silence?
It’s still echoing.

Last night was unbearable.

I tried to explain to Ryan as best I could. I apologised over and over for what I’d done. I told him I never meant to hurt him, that I’d tried so many times to stop, and that I didn’t — because every time I tried, my feelings for him grew stronger.

He said I could have told him.

I wish I had.
God, I wish I had.

Why did he have to be a decent man?

He was kind, thoughtful, genuine — everything I wasn’t in that moment. I was this horrible woman who had hurt one of her friends, and what hurt the most was the message I woke up to:

“You really hurt me. That sweet guy you said I was… he’s not there anymore.”

I didn’t sleep. I was up and down all night, pacing, spiralling, replaying everything. And somewhere in that darkness, I made a plan.

I took what pills I had at home.
Then I went to Sainsbury’s and bought two bottles of wine.
I bought a lighter for the blunts already in my bag.
I bought a sharp pack of knives.

I went to Thornes Park — to my quiet spot where hardly anyone went. I smoked. I drank both bottles of wine. I took the rest of the pills. And I used the knife on my wrist.

Then I went to sleep, hoping I wouldn’t wake up.

But I did.

I woke up in resuscitation at Pinderfields Hospital with nurses rubbing my chest.

“Miss, miss — wake up.”

I remember saying, “Let me sleep.”

The thing that pulled me back was a voice asking, “What have you taken?”

I tried to open my eyes.

“Ryan,” I said.
“Tell him I’m sorry.”

Then I closed my eyes again.

I woke up later with a violent wave of sickness. I threw up — black — and then kept throwing up. I felt something in my nose. At some point they’d inserted a tube into my stomach. I don’t remember that at all.

I was moved to a room with nothing in it. No plug sockets. Just a bed, a sofa, and bare walls. Nurses came in constantly to check my obs. I was told I was waiting for the psych team. I said okay and went back to sleep.

I was put on an IV to counteract the amount of paracetamol I’d taken. That made me sick too. There was a pile of sick bowls at the end of my bed — six of them by the time the psych team arrived. A nurse came and cleared them away.

Two women came in and asked why I’d done it.

I told them exactly how I felt.
(Quote from the psych notes):

“I’m such a bitch. I’m a horrible person. I catfished my friend — someone I really liked — and I hurt him. He only liked me as a friend. My feelings grew, and I created a persona he fell for, not me. I told him and I hurt him. I deserve to die.”

They told me no one deserves to die. That what I’d done was a mistake, and everyone makes mistakes. They said what I was feeling was guilt — and a horrible person doesn’t feel guilt.

They asked if I still wanted to end my life.

I cried and nodded.

“Susie,” they said, “we’re placing you on a 24-hour hold.”

I nodded.

I asked if I could ring my daughter — she was at home with the kids. They said the police had likely already been in touch.

Twenty minutes later, two female police officers came in. They told me they’d found me while policing the park for the fireworks display. I’d been bleeding heavily.

They went through my phone, found my bank cards and my provisional licence — out of date, with my old address. They went to my ex-husband, and he told them where my mum lived. He told them to pass on that he hoped I was okay.

Mum went to my house to look after the kids. Even though my eldest is 19 and capable, she came anyway.

The officers asked if I was okay. I showed them my wrist, bandaged. Then I was moved to a psych ward — a room where I couldn’t hurt myself. I was given medication and slept like the dead. No dreams. Just nothing.

I woke at 9am to the psych doctor. I told him I was still exhausted — I’d slept around 13 hours. He said my mum was on her way. She’d spoken to legal friends and arranged for me to be released into her care, with nurses and therapists checking in on me.

By 1pm, Mum arrived. She hugged me and told me she loved me. She said we’d talk at home. The kids had been told I’d stayed at a friend’s after drinking too much.

At Mum’s, I told her everything. About Ryan. About the catfishing. The shame crushed me.

“This is what a 14-year-old does,” I said. “Not a 40-year-old. What’s wrong with me?”

“Nothing,” Mum said. “You’re struggling. Paul. The house. The money. And the cancer on top of it all.”

“The cancer has nothing to do with this,” I said — and then panicked. Oh shit, he knows.

Mum shut that down quickly. “You’re looking after yourself now. I’m not losing you because of a bloke.”

On the 2nd, Stefan messaged me asking if I was home. I told him I needed a shower — I still felt like hospital. He asked for a picture of my dressing. I sent one.

“Bloody hell, babe,” he said.

I told him I deserved not to be here.

“No, you don’t,” he replied. “We’ll get through this.”

“I’ve not heard from him,” I said.

“You don’t need to hear from him,” Stefan replied.

“I hope he leaves me alone today,” I said.

“I hope he leaves you alone for good.”

I told Stefan the truth — that Ryan wanted answers, and only I could give them, but every message from him felt like being cut open again. Stefan said gently that him messaging me was keeping it fresh — for both of us — and that sometimes letting go is the only way to heal.

And maybe… he was right.