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60. I was supposed to know where we were going. 

It’s strange how something suddenly pops up and you realise what was happening at some point in the path. Usually something you hadn’t thought about. Not even something particularly relevant. Just something a time ago. And then you’re faced with the gap between then and now.

This is by way of trying – and subsequently failing – to sit down and tackle my tax return. The deadline is looming heavily. I’m surrounded by paperwork and records of jobs I’d forgotten and paint choices I remember – I may not always be able to put a name to a face, but I can always remember a colour scheme!

I leaf through my diary for additional reminders of the things I need to include so nothing slips through the net. And suddenly, in the pages, there’s a shout of Rome! and I’d forgotten we’d been. A big (his) family gathering for a birthday which was quite fun but glad we were not staying too close to them all. It was sunny, we were really lucky with the weather with the exception of a family trip to tour the Colosseum where we were soaked by impressively Biblical rain. It was a long weekend where we walked miles (always the best way to explore) and miles. And the sad, overriding memory is that I was supposed to know where we were going. 

I often didn’t care, was happy to have a bit of a guess, use Google-maps where needed, mooch. I knew we’d get there – I know I’ve got a good sense of direction and I could always find the metro. But If you’re that bothered about getting somewhere, why not plan the trip yourself?

I’m often a ‘last-minute’ type. I hate planning. Find no joy in it. I love the accidental happenings of taking a slightly different way, of looking at a map rather than being told where to go. But one of the phrases I remember hearing over this weekend, and so often after it, is “Are you sure?”

No. No, I’m not sure. I wasn’t sure. I just thought so. Why did I need to be sure? Why wasn’t he sure? But is was said so often. About everything and anything. If I started a sentence with “I think…” I’d still get asked. But what did it matter? Because it was just what I thought, or what made sense to me. But the question kept popping up everywhere. When looking for something, going somewhere, answering something. If I gave an opinion, if I had an idea. Are you sure?

I’m sure now.

I’m sure that, hard as it was, that it was right to part, to not settle for someone else who wasn’t ever sure. Because all the time I was supposed to be certain he never was. And I’m glad I didn’t ask, and I’m even more glad I didn’t keep wanting to know. One hundred percent is an awfully high call. Is he sure now? I never needed the answer. I still don’t. It’s a question he’s going to have to ask himself instead.

And it gets really annoying.

59. Glimpses of paradise.

I have just read back on a post from a year ago.

I remember that feeling of not being able to control, to contain. Of a tear I couldn’t stop ripping further. The weakest point between us having finally, totally, given way. I read back, and I could hug that woman. I knew then that the rock bottom I was sitting on would probably grow stable. I would learn to put my feet down. To stand, to eventually step forward.

Today there are glimpses of the future I know I want. I don’t know I’ll get it, little is that simple. But I don’t really care. It’s the joy, the heart filling warmth, and it feels so good. Not just because in itself it’s lovely. It is. But it reminds me that settling, just scraping by, not even side by side but vaguely, not really, together, makes you stoop. It diminishes you.

Not continuing with that is hard. It’s a known life, not your best one, that you have and it’s scary to leave it.

But I am reminded that a future of glimpses of paradise is so much more than a past with none.

And in the words of the great Kenny Rogers…

Don’t be afraid to give up the good for the great.

Especially when it’s wasn’t even good.

58. It’s been a (add some adjectives) year

This time last year was quite a different thing. Quite different indeed.

While deep down, even in the very depths, I knew I would eventually be some kind of ok, I was somewhere I didn’t want to be. Defeated, separate and heading into a future I had not exactly chosen.

Except I had. By not wanting the stalemate of the present to continue I made the move. I took control by giving up. I finally stopped expecting change to happen without me making it. Not really rocket science when you think about it. Waiting for someone else to make your decisions for you is definitely the road I don’t want to be on.

So I chose a road I didn’t know. It’s not like the single life of my twenties, full of friendships and possibilities and adventures. Except it is. Just a different version. The friendships – such joy and security and strength- haven’t changed. They have reassured me that, in spite of the drama and trauma, I’m still me. Able to laugh, be ridiculous, be a bit rubbish – and none of those things are anything to do with breaking up.

The adventures were/are different. Not because I’m not able to do the things I did in my younger single days, but, quite frankly, I can’t be arsed. Two internet dates and one very strange interaction were quite enough to let me know that I will find my own way. Swiping is not for me.

The possibility of all sorts is out there. And the struggles of being broke and far too busy are no reason not to head into them. I’m not sure of what lies ahead. But that’s fine by me. I’m ready now.

And what of him? How does he seem? It’s hard to tell. It has taken nearly a year for him to ask how I am – and be ready for an honest answer – but maybe that wasn’t any different than before. He has learned to manage alone, to be responsible for himself, mostly. He doesn’t seem particularly happier for it but may be that wasn’t the goal. He’s less angry, and I’m less sympathetic. Possibly not the worst combination.

There have been highs and lows – what year doesn’t have them? But it’s been helpful to remind myself where I was and where I am now. That I fixed me up fine – with support and laughter and a hearty dose of ‘get a bloody grip woman!’ I like to (only occasionally) read the early posts – I’m proud of that part of me. Mostly. I’m sure I was a complete arse on occasions. But I tried not to be. And I tried to make things ok. Because when you ask yourself “Can we do this well?” You have to really decide to say yes. Not just hope. The breakup fairy doesn’t pop over with a sprinkling of amicable powder to help you in your way. And it is up to you how you are. I have no say about how someone else is. I can moan or complain, but it really doesn’t help. No one else is keeping count so point scoring is pointless.

But… I think we’ve done ok. Our first year. And a year of firsts. It’s finished. Could have been worse, could have been better, but it’s certainly been a year.

57. Time passes, dear reader

Some months ago, not a year, not quite yet, I began to write. I put thumb to phone and let go of things I was holding. I typed at my laptop when I felt the need to release. I sent out, in their strange digital form, these messages in a bottle – albeit floating around the internet rather than bobbing on the beautiful briney sea.

With each one sent I felt a small space in my lungs to breathe a little bit more. Each time I look back on the words I set down I see how far they are away from me now. And how close.

Because the line on which I write takes me forward and back. While I think I’m building, healing, strengthening – and I am indeed doing all of these – I am still grieving and hurting.

It is in strange moments that I find the pop of a memory. Things that I had almost forgotten- or rather things I had not thought about for some time.

Tonight I have been presented with a rack of cd’s that once lived in our home and are now at his. Resentment bubbled briefly as I looked through the titles, some we chose together, some were presents. Some were bloody well mine! But they are still only things. Would it make me feel better to take them? Not really. I only need to ask or mention it, rather than cause an issue and made a fuss.

Music was often a point of difference. I love it, but enjoy peace more. Music isn’t something I “put on” but for me it adds to what I’m doing. For him it was on and to be heard by all. I minded if we were together, a choice inflicted. Now, I hardly play any – although often have the radio on.

But the likes of little thin boxes brought back thoughts of times together. Gigs and parties and holidays when we brought home the soundtrack, having our memento to hold. Those now sit on a shelf. Does he just hear the music? Does the reason for the disc not exist for him or is it just about the tunes?

He’s not here to ask (I have a healthy nice reason for being in his home, by the way! I’m not some weird stalker!) but I don’t think I will.

Some things are better left unsaid.

56. Sometimes it’s the little things that make you feel better.

I love my street. I know most of my neighbours, some just to wave and say hi, but several have become good friends. We have community get togethers, a street party every year that is the talk of the area. There’s a book club where we occasionally talk about the book we were supposed to read but instead spend the evening chatting and laughing over a glass or two. We build areas for plants so the street looks nice, turn graffiti into flowery art that means we’ve never been graffitied again – too embarrassed in case their tags become another daisy or rose.

It’s not a rich, gentrified street but full of families that have grown together in the years that they’ve lived here.

A couple of weeks ago, on a warm sunny Sunday we had a bake-off and an art trail. People who liked to bake brought a mighty selection of homemade cakes. Those of us who liked to eat made sure there was nothing left (easy to guess which role I took). It was a chance to chat over tea and delicious offerings. Vegan sponge along side Eritrean bread, Lemon drizzle next to empanadas. Bliss.

The art trail had started days before. Those that wanted to had made miniature artworks and we hid them on the Sunday morning. They had all been photographed and children and some of the grownups searched around to tick the ones they found off their trail sheet.

I had entered. I couldn’t help myself.

A few years ago himself had complained of toothache. Finally going to the dentist she had made a mould of his teeth in order to produce a gum shield to wear at night. I found the plaster cast model of his teeth in the loft. It seemed ideal. A little addition and a small amount of paint later and I was ready to exhibit.

I named my piece “the shit he left behind”.

Sometimes it’s the little things that make you feel better.

55. I thought ‘I don’t want to be friends with you’.

Last Sunday morning I walked the dog with the daughter. A nice and energetic walk around Tooting Common, watching the dog bounce through the long grass and chase sticks into pond. It was sunny and warm and easy. And it helped start a strange day well. It’s our wedding anniversary today. I didn’t quite know what to do with it. I felt sad, but not overwhelmingly so. I felt disappointed and slightly cross. But mostly I just felt at a bit of a loss.

It was difficult not to keep remembering what a great day we’d had. (Read 16. And then I talked about our wedding.) But I remember also that he went for a run the afternoon before the wedding and left me and our friends to put up the gazebos in the garden and the flowers on the tables. Always that one step away from a full commitment.

This evening we went out for something to eat together. I shy away from saying that we went out to dinner, it has the ring of a date about it, and I had no intention of it being that. It was my idea, to do something positive when I was feeling rather wobbly. I think the anniversary had upset me more than was obvious. It was, maybe coincidentally, the start of ‘one of those weeks’.

Anyway, we met in a lovely, quirky, joyful little restaurant on the hill. It’s a place I often go, and we used to come together on occasions. I know the man who runs it, the smiliest person in the world who always greets me with a “Hello Sister” and a joke about my meal choice. I think I needed to know in advance that, even if the evening may be ‘iffy’ the food and the service definitely wouldn’t be. It was a bit noisy outside, and looked like rain, so we moved indoors, where it was just as noisy because there were musicians rehearsing. So we could chat, but only loudly, and I didn’t really feel like loud. I hadn’t  exactly prepared a list of subjects but the ones I did want to, hopefully, get into weren’t really for projecting across a table.

But we did talk, well, we chatted. About his dad and the holiday home, about the dog, his decorating, his yoga, a bit about my work, about the daughter and her plans. It was ok. It wasn’t great. I’m not entirely sure what I expected. I know I hoped, at some point, to be asked how I was doing, but it didn’t really come. I’m not entirely sure he want’s to know. Because, in reality, it’s not so much that he’s moved on, it’s that real understanding that he wasn’t truly there in the first place. And that’s the sad realisation. The feeling that I get when we talk, when I see him is that I don’t really miss him, because he wasn’t properly here. He spoke of the security that he knows he doesn’t have now; the company, the intimacy he misses, but I don’t think he misses me.

He spoke about aloneness, but as a thing to get used to, not that he was lonely. About the plans and ideas he’s starting to have for his future. He talked about the difficult relationship he still has with his parents, and maybe that will never change. And as we sat, surrounded by the noise and bustle, I thought ‘I don’t want to be friends with you’. Because, while not for one moment to I want to get back together, I would, for once, like to hear something from him about me. Because he’s the one that left and I’m the one that made it easy for him. I’ve been actively supportive and helpful to make the process better. I know it’s been less of a drama for those around us, But even a small acknowledgement of what I’ve been through would be nice. Isn’t that what friends do? Even things out a bit? Understand what the other person is going through?

I don’t want to hear all about him, and wait for a suitable moment to tell him about me. I want to be asked. So I don’t want to appear to be ‘like a friend’, because that’s not the type of friend I need. I can’t be bothered. Really I can’t. And the difference now is that I don’t have to.

So I’ll still be nice, because, after all, we are doing this well. But that’s what it is. Being nice. I’ll be friendly. But he’s not a friend.

 

 

 

54. The niceness is really starting to piss me off!

Sometimes, time just trundles along. The weeks have rolled into months and now I find that it has been over five month since we separated. Nearly eight since we decided to part. It’s getting to the stage when the anniversary of the end  is heading towards us. Do we mark the occasion. Does it warrant celebration, not for the break itself, but for the way we’ve managed to be.

Or is there a new chapter which we need to write. No one of pleasantness and simple kindnesses, but of actually being able to talk. Because we’re not there yet.

We meet, or rather, we see each other fairly regularly. There’s the dropping off of the dog, the daughter needing a hand, even a chance to watch football downstairs with his dad. All those occasions are politely and gently managed. The “is it all right”s and “do you mind”s are sent ahead so that there are no surprises. And we dance this dance of not wanting to offend or intrude.

And the niceness is really starting to piss me off!

Don’t get me wrong, it’s a good thing. Who wants to be the shouty, pointy, accusing, unforgiving couple? disappointed that Jeremy Kyle has been taken off air. This way of being is so much healthier, so much easier to heal from. But what does it say about us? Because I feel that all the things that couldn’t be said at the beginning of the end are still waiting to be said. It’s like those words are all sitting on a shelf, and I’m concerned that they’ll sit up there forever, gathering dust. And we’ll never learn from them

The past few month, the space and distance it has given us, enables us to speak while not being in the pain we were. I remember the feeling when I couldn’t breathe, when the lump in my throat or the knot in my stomach was made of all the things I couldn’t say, the questions I couldn’t ask. Those barriers are smaller – they’ve not gone, but they feel different now.

Our friend in America, when I told him our news, was saddened and sad for us. I told him how we were being, how we were trying to do ‘this’ well. “Good” he said, “because loosing a lover is one thing, but loosing a friend is much worse”

And that’s what it feels like. The physicality of being on my own has become familiar, I’m used to the bed to myself, the dinners to suit, the schedule without checking with anyone else. It’s not always great, it can get a bit lonely or boring or lazy, but it doesn’t feel awful like it did at the beginning. So I can manage the ‘living on my own’ bit.

But I miss the friend I once had. The person I could tell almost anything. And I wonder if we have to finally talk about the one thing we didn’t – us – in order to finally be truly just friends.

53. In that first embrace of hello there is an armful of feeling.

Well, there’s another first bitten the dust – if that’s the way to phrase it. Another thing that, should it happen again, won’t be so strange, so unknown. He had a party. A small flat warming do. Just a manageable gathering of people, and I know all of them.

So there was the challenge. And it has been rather a day of it. I had morning spent chatting to people I haven’t seen for months who go to his classes every week. I bumped into them going for a post yoga class brunch. At least I haven’t had to “do the ‘We’ve broken up’ talk, though I’ve no idea when he actually told them about us. But those first meetings with people who know us both, know the news, it feels strangely sad.

There’s nearly always a hug, and in that first embrace of hello there is an armful of feeling. The tentative and awkward but trying not to show discomfort hug, the ‘don’t really know how to handle this’ hug; The ‘it makes no difference’ hug; The ‘well, isn’t life a fucker’ hug. And throughout today I have received all of them.

It was a pleasant enough evening. On advice (much needed) I arrived at the later end of the ‘get here between 7 and 8’ request. (You’re a guest, I was reminded, and you can get there when you bloody well like.) It felt better to join the gathering, not help start it – my usual role at a party. But this wasn’t our doo, I wasn’t there to help or entertain. Just to chat, and have a drink and eat too much cheese.

At one point we sat together and talked. And it’s still strange. So familiar and comfortable, yet distant. Like a video call in a way. But there are phrases that still feel so loaded. “You’d really like her” he said, about his latest one-to-one yoga client.  And that felt odd. Does he still think about my likes and dislikes? Do I pop still into his head? Will there soon be a “her” that I may have to consider?

And then it was easier to just leave. Enough face shown, plenty of being sociable, but home in time for tea and toast. Because one first always reminds me that there are probably plenty of others yet to come.

52. So this love I had, where does it go?

I don’t think that I have ever had my name written on the sand. I remember the giant ‘SOS’ that marked the expanse of beach on a winter’s day in North Wales. I didn’t really need rescuing, but it was awfully cold. But the initials in the sand, made with all the little white pebbles that the writer, or writers, had searched the shore line for to make sure that lots of matching ones could be found, those initials and the heart and the date – they made my own heart skip.

It’s a beautiful thing to be in love. The overwhelming, all consuming feeling that you need nothing else in the world, that you’ll breath in as they breath out and that will sustain you. It’s as important as leaving your heartfelt message on the sand. And just as fleeting.

So this love I had, where does it go when the waves have been and gone?

I still feel it at moments. Not the intense new love, but the one that cares, that smiles, that would bring tea and toast. And somehow that’s the feeling I miss most. Those small touches that you share and do for each other. Funny things to share, understandings of each other that don’t need explaining.

The thought of trying to build those again seems a swim too far at the moment. But who knows.

I’ve been away for a week. Very lucky me, I know. And I spent most of it sitting on beaches watching the sea come in and out. It’s like breathing, and gradually it made me realise that I hadn’t been breathing properly for quite some time. Being warm, in the sun, with nothing to do and no need to do it, made me stop. No work to organise, plans to make, shopping to do, dog to walk. Read a book, don’t read a book – no one minds either way. And it was wonderful. Because rather than thinking – about me, him, my future, our past – I stared at the sea.

Past holidays came into my mind, but not for long, and not to cause pain. Future walks on the beach were considered, but they will come and who knows what they’ll look like. I’ve strolled along many sandy coves, laughed with good friends while paddling in the sea, and watched many many waves.

Nothing lasts on the sand. And that’s the way it will always be.

 

51. Together but separate.

I have the absolute treat of having 3 seats to myself on a flight to Portugal. I knew I’d got the window seat when I checked in but this is a huge bonus. My travelling companion has her window seat across the isle so we’re both happy. Together but separate. Or is that separate but together. I wonder at the difference.

This is my new life. I’ve taken the chance of a cheap break. Fly out with one friend, joined by another in a couple of days, friend one flies home, friend two stays until we do our separate but together flights home. This way I get a happy medium, the too-ing and fro-ing has a ‘just popping in’ feel to it. I’m the constant. Company is good. But I’m strangely not ready to go on holiday with someone else yet.

I’m off to stay in the father-in-law’s flat he has in The Algarve. Purchased last year with no sense of irony despite having voted for Brexit. His politics aside he is a kind man, has been a source of support in so many ways over the past months, and I am often grateful for his presence downstairs. His was the heart we broke most with our news, but he has seen us start to build our new way of being and I know it helps him too.

So off I go. And I am excited. Packing was fun. I bought myself a treat of new headphones at the airport. Friend one and I tested enough perfumes to gas the plane. I’m loving the luxury of stretching out on my triple seat.

And I have my list of places that my once partner now no longer together recommends when he came to stay in February. He came to escape, to be somewhere other. He phoned last night. To hope I have a great time and to give me tips of things that he thought I’d like. A great market on Tuesday, a lovely restaurant that’s a bit hidden away, the best bit of the beach, away from people as much as possible – other people are my least favourite things when I’m away. Because he knows me well. And was a lovely thing to do. Those holidays when we take it in turns to choose the things we’d like to do, discovering hidden gems together off the beaten track, quirky places to make the exploring so worthwhile, they are all behind us. Our separate adventures stretch before us.

And it make me feel just a tiny bit sad. But a bit sad with a good tan isn’t a bad way to be.

50 Because now we are not “us”.

It’s a strange a sad feeling to talk on the phone to someone you know so well but you can’t be how you were. It’s constantly re-navigating. Each step, each word has to be considered, because now we are not “us”. Everything is different. And today, speaking about the dog and her current issues, it felt hard and complicated and strained. The ease and natural flow of a chat between friends not yet (will it ever) reached, the confident communication of those who know place with each other has gone. These phone calls are not fun.

I think of phone conversations I have with those I speak regularly. Chats that go on for ages about everything and nothing. Moaning about family members that gets all those grumps off your chest. There are belly laughs about ridiculous things that remind me I love laughing and don’t do enough of it at the moment. Bouncing ideas around and having my opinions tested by those who love and know me well. I’d be lost without this link.

I spend much of my working day alone, my partner in paint left a few years ago to more out of the big city to a quieter life of the West Country. So the phone, and especially my essential headphones, are often my social media of choice. I am well skilled in painting a ceiling at the same time as catching up on the latest gossip, I can paper and partake of a good grumble better than anyone.

So I am happy on the phone. It’s not difficult to be myself, because who else am I going to be?

But I don’t know how to be with him. It still feels so sad, being awkward while trying not to be awkward. The effort of being nice is not so much of an effort, but the need to be so in itself is just a painful reminder that, once upon a time, he was one of my go-to people I’d chat to in my day.

Just another lesson to learn.

49. Why didn’t he just go for it instead of running at economy level.

There’s a balance to be had when you’ve things wizzing around your head. A balance between thoughts that can build into something that you have to process before you can move forward, and things that you can keep stored away until you have time to unpack them. But it’s not as if you always have as much control as you’d like. Emotions, especially those attached to memories, rarely stay where we put them. They dance and skit about, hiding from us and distracting us when we least want them. Maybe we never want them, that’s the problem.

So yesterday, I took the dog over to his flat as this is his weekend to have her, and in the warmth of the sunny spring evening I was shown onto the newly decorated, laden with pot plants and flowers, just painted table sight of his roof terrace. I looked around at all his hard work, at his choices and effort. And all I could feel was the depth of disappointment that he had never put that much time and effort into our home together.

Don’t get me wrong, that flat really needed decorating, and all the things he has done look good and will no doubt help him. But it’s so hard not to feel that, by committing to our home in the same way, putting in the effort and taking responsibility for the space we had together, we would have been so much better. We could have been something special, instead of just ok.

What a waste. And that’s where the balance issue comes into it. I’m pissed off. But that’s what I have to balance… do I unpack these thoughts, unpick this trail of emotions until who knows what is unravelled? It’s starting to feel like we had a life together half lived. What could it have been if we’d lived it fully? Why didn’t he just go for it instead of running at economy level. We wouldn’t be worse off than we are now. We could have been so much more.

But now he has to ‘be more’. No one to fill in the gaps, do the things that need doing when they need doing. It’s all up to him. He’s been spoiled all his life so maybe it’s the lesson that he couldn’t learn unless he one hundred percent had to. More fool him.

48. Today, I’m swimming so it must be Wednesday.

I often feel like I only know what day it is because of what I’m doing. The routine of each day carries itself along. When I work on a big job, one that carries on for weeks – the current one is nearly months now – the weeks, and so the days, become a very alike. I walk the dog most mornings and the changing light, the creeping of winter to spring can be seen on every tree we pass. But I still can be unsure of what day it is. I have had to adjust to not having his routine to work alongside, or the pattern of our time together. Just me, and it’s not always easy to remember what day it is. But…

Today, I’m swimming so it must be Wednesday.

It started at the beginning of the year, when things were raw and painful and the thought of seeing him broke me a little too much. He had offered to walk the dog on a Wednesday morning. I didn’t want to be at home when he came. Still wasn’t able to see him without crumbling a little. And I had to get up early and feed the dog anyway, so what to do? Couldn’t go for a walk, not really any joy in taking myself out for breakfast, no one else I knew was up and about but with free time before a late start to the working day. So swimming was the only thing that I could think of.

Crystal Palace National Sports Centre is a short drive from here. The daughter used to go to diving classes there, and the pool is big and bright and open. So I swam. Different strokes, different speeds. Not chasing times or breaking records, but enough of a push. And doing backstroke, trying to remember how many lengths I had done I watched a pigeon fly overhead, clearly happy inside the high ceilings of the building.

It wasn’t a bad way to spend my morning. I like swimming. I didn’t rush. I took some nice unctions and products that I’d been given for Christmas to make the changing room experience a little more special. It felt actively positive. It was my choice, my decision, my action.

And it’s now part of my week. If I’m working or even if I’m not, Wednesday’s I will be swimming. I don’t always want to go, but I always do. Because to not go, to avoid it, feels like I’m not making a good decision, but hiding. So I’m not hiding, I’m swimming. And who doesn’t want to see a pigeon flying above them when they’re trying to count to ten.

 

47. And a funny bet was made.

I’m currently on a flying visit to Glasgow and Manchester with the daughter to check out the universities, and the cities them selves. It’s lovely to have her back, telling tales of her travelling adventures, sharing new enthusiasms and plans.

So, sitting on the train watching the beautiful countryside wizz past, we talk, inevitably, about me and her dad.

It’s getting easier, I tell her. Less painful to see him, even kind of normal. Could you see yourself back with him? She asks. Not in a ‘I need my parents to be together’ kind of way. She’s not that sort of person and it wasn’t that sort of question. The answer is a calm but decisive NO.

We talked about plans for the future, the advantages of having siblings to share the load of stuff. The perks of being an only. ‘At least you inheritance will be yours’ I laughed. ‘Unless you dad has another child, of course.’

And a whole new line of conversation started. And a funny bet was made.

Years ago, when the daughter was four years old I had the first of four miscarriages. Each one building on the trauma, insecurities and heartbreak of the one before. By the last one I gave up wanting to try again. The pain, in its many forms, just too much to bear. So it was going to be us three (I hasten to add not ‘just’ us three, as I know now and really knew then how lucky we were to have our girl)

We then had certain practicalities to establish. Not wanting another baby means not getting pregnant. My body had been in the wars so I wasn’t willing to put myself through anything else. So a small, snippy procedure was mentioned, and as we both knew people who had had one I didn’t think it such a big deal. But it was. It became a very big deal, a case of any other future being denied to him.

If it was merely fear expressing itself with excuses that would make sense, but in the discussions at the time I knew it was a sign of something else. A commitment he wasn’t willing to make. It did, in several little ways, take its toll.

So to the bet. I joked about another child. But his lack of support over the practicalities of contraception had always been a drag on our life together. So will he step up if he meets someone? He’s still a handsome man and, while I don’t enjoy the thought of him with someone else, it’s perfectly probable. I may even be at that point myself one day. But I’m not ever going to have another baby – I can’t say the same for him.

So on the long train ride to Glasgow I wagered £50 he would in 5 years! And once I handed over the cash, it was hers to keep unless he had one within 10!

And I’m not sure why I think it might happen, but there is the doubt in my mind. Doubt that he really has started to take responsibility, act like a grown up.

Be a drastic way to be proved right. But one part of the bet was that the daughter had to tell him about it if I win! So he’ll know if I’m suddenly fifty quid the richer.

46. So are we starting to be friends?

Today, he and I have been working together. All day. And it’s been good. It’s been friendly, chatty and only a bit weird. In fact really, only weird in moments.

He used to help me with occasional days on big jobs. So, as I’m currently working on a big job, he offered. I said yes. I knew it might be odd, but the advantages a the day’s work  really outweighed the potential strangeness. And I thought if we can be together for a day then that might make future times much easier to manage.

And it familiar, but not painfully so. There were moments when I had to step back from feeling completely normal, because our normal isn’t the same any more. But that’s not the worse place to be. We still have patterns that we slip into and some of those are worth keeping. Knowing how someone likes their coffee isn’t a thing to unlearn so you have a distance, and the fact that we both brought hot-cross buns in as a treat for each other made us both laugh – they’d always been a favourite of ours, and a separation isn’t going to change that.

So we sanded and prepped and filled the day away. We talked of family, of the dog and her recent anxiety issues, of friends and outings and the daughter. We spoke of the plans for his roof terrace and the cherry-blossom on the street outside. I asked about which evening the pooch could go for a sleepover and this was the stumbling moment, because he was busy some nights, and I couldn’t ask why.

But I told him, because it felt right to. “It’s weird, because I was about to ask you where you were going and I’ve just realised it’s none of my business.” and even that was ok. “you can ask, it’s fine”.

So are we starting to be friends? Is it this simple? I look back over the things I have written and know how much all this hurt in the beginning, but it really isn’t at that level any more. Has being nice served us so well? I wonder how I will feel if the answer to “where are you going?” was not out with friends I know well.

But being angry wouldn’t have helped me. And I’d rather be better than that. I have enough to think about, with an anxious dog and a life to plan as my starting points then I really don’t feel that I need that weight of negativity. It’s just I wasn’t really sure it would work. We’re not fully there yet. I still have moments when I feel sad, I still find saying goodbye to him the strangest of pains. And I still can’t touch him. But we can talk. We can be together without incident or tears or drama. I think, so far, we are doing this well.

45. Is that all I miss?

Some days I find I’m nearly through to the other end before I’ve had time to think. I doubt that I’m alone in that feeling. It’s a little like that moment when you’re driving and you come to a point when you don’t entirely remember all the journey, and have to trust your driving even when you can’t recall it.

I’m finding that some of my days can be a bit like that. Not bad days, but filled with the usual things – dog walk; breakfast; go to work; home; eat; bit of crap on telly; bed – that I’m functioning perfectly well. But is that enough?

I have so many advantages – healthy, solvent and housed. I still have good friends, and a good laugh when I see them.

But there is a small voice that’s just started muttering. It’s quite and infrequent. But it can still be heard.

“Is this it?”

I don’t want to hear it. But it’s hard to shut it up without a burst of activity. And I’m tired. There seems to be a constant stream of things to do, and, unsurprisingly, only me to do them.

Is that all I miss? The presence of someone to help out? Fill in the gaps when I’m feeling weary? To let me have the occasional lie in when I don’t want to take the dog out or cook something for when I get home?

But then, watching a bit of hilarity before bedtime with the dog hogging most of the sofa I realise that it’s still better to have things that are missing, with the hope that one day I can find ways of filling them. Better than having those ‘gaps’ being filled by someone who doesn’t want to.

It’s hard being on your own sometimes. But it’s much harder when you’re with someone and you feel like you’re on your own. I must remember that now that things don’t hurt so much anymore. An early morning dog walk is a small price to pay. And she very much wants to help.

44. A little time to start the healing.

A friend, well actually a friend who is also the wife of his barber, came round last night to give me some bones for the dog. I haven’t seen her for quite a while because we used to meet each other on the occasional times that I went to his Friday morning yoga. I’m not doing that class at the moment, haven’t been since America, and I have no idea if I will again.

Kay handed over a big bag of bones and a very excited dog soon had a treat while she and I stood to chat. She’d heard, He’d actually told someone! She was so sad, had cried at the news. “Do you not think you could have him back and make it work?’ she said, with sorrow and concern in her voice.

‘It wasn’t me’ I said.

She looked shocked. I could take it as flattery I suppose. We talked. The ‘do you think he’s having a mid-life crisis’ comment was used.

But now we’re getting a little space between us, a little time to start the healing, I’m starting to make a bit of sense of things. Not of why he wanted to leave, I don’t think even he is sure of that. But of why it will be ok.

I’m not panicking about money, so the pressure is off there. I have spent two months without the daughter about and have found that I haven’t really missed her as much as I thought. I’ve eaten well, walked the dog every morning without any trouble at all. Been busy, seen lots of friends, generally got on with things. I’ve taken it all in my stride – mostly.

So, I wonder slightly, whether I waited until I was ready to make the change.

We’d had wobbles over the years, who doesn’t. But they were always the same thing. They’d start with a mood, an atmosphere. I’d ask the ‘are you alright?’ type things. Eventually we’d have an emotional talk with a ‘I’m not sure I wan’t to be in this relationship’ thrown in the mix. It was a killer. I remember the first time it happened and it cut me to the core. But then it would all go away. We’d be happy again. Work together, get along. Until a couple of years later.

Each time a kick in the head.  Actually the stomach would be more accurate. That’s what it felt like. But when we sat down the last time, my stomach churning but not so much, I knew that all those wobbles that had amounted to this moment, when I made the decision. Not to keep putting it all back together, patching it up and trying to make it work. But to let go.

So maybe it really was me.

 

43. But it gets a little easier each time.

Amid the ‘you can take this’ and ‘I’ll keep that’ element of parting I have ended up with the printer. Not that he was ever really sure how it worked and I don’t think he ever changed an ink cartridge on it. However, he needed a boarding pass printed and so I printed it. He came round to collect it, bringing the dog after a mid-week overnight stay. We talked, sat around my round table while not drinking tea.

But it gets a little easier each time.

We talked of the adventuring daughter, of the anxious dog, of work and decorating and how are things. The lightly brushing past subjects, not too deep but not avoiding altogether.

Then goodbye, and walking down the stairs together. It helps to have a dog (see Blog #10) who distracts us both with overexcited activity.

And a hug.

The first hug. The hug has been somewhere I hadn’t been able to go. I can be friendly, nice, helpful… even cheery. But I have not been able to touch him. So he hugged me. And when he had left I wept. It was another first and won’t be as hard again. It was as if all the not hugging occasions had been building up causing pressure, a blockage.

Still, it’s done now. And I find myself sitting in a strange but familiar place. I am now at ‘his’ place. “Would you mind checking on the flat while I’m away, if you have time?” So obviously I make time. Well, you would, wouldn’t you. And here alone I look around – remembering to water the plant because that’s obviously why I’ve popped in. It’s a strange feeling. It doesn’t hurt like the last time I was here. And I have to be cautious not to be overwhelmed by the desire to put a few things where they would look a little better. But he’s starting to make it look really nice. “Don’t judge me on my cutting in” (as if I would, but a damp cloth when you’re painting around the lights wouldn’t hurt) but I like what he’s done so far.

And did he ask me to check the flat because it needed checking up on? He took my advice on colours but it’s still his work, his decisions, it’s his home. And the kettle I bought him for Christmas sits, well used, on the hob. But did he hug me, ask me to his home to show me that he will be ok too? It feels possible, probable.

Although, he still can’t clean a bathroom properly so nothing’s so very different.

42. Life’s not that simple.

It’s been a strange day today.

A playlist of break up songs on the radio (intended to take the piss out of the current political shit storm) most of which didn’t really make a dent until Odyssey came on with the lyrics ‘So if you’re looking for a way out, I won’t stand here in your way.’

I uncovered a family height chart under the wallpaper of a house I’m renovating. From ‘mum’ and Betty G’ (who were tiny) past the kids, and ‘Sid’ and even ‘milkman’! And then it got to ‘Mike’, who was very tall.

Back at home the land line rang. It’s been quiet for so long I’ve almost forgotten we, whoops I, had one. I rush to answer it, because somehow I know I need to. The familiar sound of a dear friend on the end of the line makes me sit on the stairs. Because it’s someone he should have told. Hadn’t been brave enough to. They were the friends we stayed with in America, the last time we were really seen as a couple. Because soon after, so soon it still feels weird, we changed everything.

And I had to do the telling, again.

It doesn’t get easier. I think I’m doing well, and I am in reality. But there are times when I feel fragile all over again. When, especially, I break someone else’s heart with the news. And I have to try and explain, make sense of the situation. That’s when it’s hard. Because I don’t have an explanation. Not really. I suppose there isn’t one. Life’s not that simple. And there’s no point in me just blaming him to make it sound more straightforward, or vice versa. I have moments when I’d like to, but truly, it would only make me feel worse.

Tonight we met up with a bunch of our friends. We were saying goodbye to one of our local pubs. closing down after years of cheap beer, average food and entertaining evenings. It’s good to have the distraction of a crowd. Chatty mates catching up with tales of the daughter, work, street gossip and dog antics. I told him about the names under the wallpaper and it was lovely to hear him laugh about the milkman. But in the next breath he was tense about something I didn’t even understand. And I knew it was hard. It is hard. And I still can only say goodbye when I leave. No hug, when I hug everyone else. That is still the hardest.

 

 

41. It’s been an advantage to share troubles.

I am blessed with friends, honest friends. They know me, know him, support both and see no need to ‘takes sides’. Still, they’re not afraid of an opinion. That’s probably why they are friends. All the opinions vary, some overlap, some are frank, some more softened. All go into the pot where lives my constant stirring thoughts.

Because I can’t answer the questions that many ask. The ‘why?’s, the ‘would you?’s, the ‘do you think’s. Can’t and won’t answer. Certainly not yet. I am still very much in the moment. The actions I am taking are for now, for the things I need to control and manage, to keep everything within arms length and very much in sight. The future is a thing over there. I’m not afraid of it. But I’m just not looking at it at the moment.

Friends have shit of their own going on, all of them. So not only is it good to be able to help, shift the focus off me. But it’s a very healthy reminder that anything I’m going through counts for no more than a dot on the landscape of the whole picture. And it feels good to remember that. It’s been an advantage to share troubles, not a burden, because that sharing comes right back. I’ve needed physical and emotional hugs and I’ve given them straight back. It’s not so much a trouble shared is a trouble halved, but the sharing in all directions, makes me feel like I’m not alone. And I know I’m not.

 

40. So maybe I need to think big and walk toward it.

I have a busy week, I do lots of things, see lots of people, lots of things get ticked off the list. And then there’s someone else to tell.

It’s the telling that is hard.

So often I’ve got myself to the stage where I’m feeling strong and capable. Sense of humour in full flow – always a sign that I’m feeling a bit more like me. I am seeing things in the future. Not exactly the future itself but I can see certain things happening in it. Good things, interesting thing. Certainly I’m not so scared of it. Or more specifically, I’m not so scared of my place in it. Because that can sometimes be the thing that makes me take breath. How do I navigate my way through? What’s it going to look like?

A friend of mine told me that a couple of years ago, for the first time ever, he sat down and wrote a plan. In fact he wrote a five year plan. Small things, the many little doable things filled lots of its spaces. But there were big, important, Life things. About jobs and house and family. And, more importantly, it made him plan for a future he’d been walking towards without really putting down a structure to make it take shape.

I’ve been doing the same thing. I’m used to being a person that works well in a crisis. I think on my feet and I always come up with a solution to a problem. It’s how I get through many situations. It’s certainly getting me through this one. But that isn’t going to give me targets and something to work toward. It’s as if it separates the dreams from the possibilities. If I’m not careful I’ll miss out all the big stuff while busying myself with the achievable.

So maybe I need to think big and walk toward it.

Travel, home, job – these are areas I’ve had thoughts about, even changed some bits of them. But none of those changes have been months in the planning, certainly never a year, and sometimes barely weeks. I react to something and that’s when my actions happen. It’s a hell of a thought that I can choose my action first.

This new life is going to take some getting used to,

39. You’ll need your own key.

It’s been a busy weekend. Not my turn to have the dog so things planned, people booked. A pleasing balance of new things and new places, or just some special treats in places I know with good friends. Because it helps. I don’t want to feel like I’m waiting for someone to come in, that I’m on pause. I deserve to have a nice time so I’m damn well going to.

But there’s always a moment. It hides, lurks around a corner and flicks you on the nose when you’re looking the other way.

Friday I went up the Shard for a cocktail (just the one, expensive, but so worth it) with my lovely god-daughter who came to stay not knowing it was mine and his 22nd anniversary. Didn’t tell her, the treat was already given and it wasn’t about that. It was lovely just hanging out with her. Saturday was full of shouting and laughing and new faces as I watched England beat Ireland in the rugby in a packed and lively pub with friends and their friends, and it was lovely being part of a crowd. Us strolling home with bags of chips and laugh at all the silly photos taken.

Today I went to meet a friend for lunch. It was a sunny day, and we were to meet in the park. On the way I heard a voice calling me. A man I know well, but haven’t seen since the break up. He runs a centre round the corner I often use for meetings I organise. Himself teaches his yoga classes there too. ‘Will you still be using the hall for meeting?’ he said. ‘You’ll need your own key‘.

And there it was. The moment. Because I’d always used the set of keys himself had, because this was a person who knew us both, because he was trying not to make an issue of the fact that I would, quite rightly, need my own keys, it felt like it was the biggest issue there was. He was just trying to be helpful. I’m not really sure why it hurt. But hurt it did.

I walked to the park, met my friend and wept. I was eventually fine of course. I know I will be. But the shell I am trying to form is very far from set. I don’t want to desensitize myself. I cannot imagine ever being unbothered and I know there will always be times that have the weight of emotion on them. I just wish they wouldn’t leap out at you when you’re not ready.

38. Those details, all of them, add up to the end.

The nest is empty.

The daughter has left on her travels, taking her first independent steps to explore the big world out there. My feelings about that are mixed and many – and I know that’s as it should be. However difficult it is for me I wouldn’t have it any other way. And I now it’s difficult for her father too. He’s just started to build a relationship with her away from the day to day living, the arguments were stopping, things were improving, and then off she goes.

I invited him round on her last evening. Just to be on hand, around for a bit of chatting and hanging out. Not that there was much socialising with her, amid the chaos of packing and the other friends visiting there wasn’t a lot of time for just them. But they did have a few minutes of just them. I know he’s going to miss her. I know it still feels weird. For both of us.

As I was driving back from the airport I joined a massive traffic jam. Not helpful when you’re trying to keep busy and not get upset. I couldn’t help but think of all the times I had dropped the daughter off somewhere and left, having said goodbye, upset and trying hard not to show it. Her first day at nursery school I was a mess, watching her run off with total excitement. I was the same at primary school, her first holiday away with friends. I was so often hiding my upset as I watched her take on the world. It’s not my job to hold her back with my emotions, they’re just a byproduct. But all those times I had him reassuring me, and just giving me the necessary hug I needed. But this time it’s just me.

So I did as any sane person would do when stuck in traffic while feeling rather sad – I called my best friend, because when you’re fed up they’ll have some way of bringing you back. I spoke of the reassurance I missed, how the evening before had been nice, how hard it is to see him sometimes when I still can’t hug him, how moments things seem so normal when we’re talking that I forget…

And then you realise why a best friend, an ‘honest, knows you inside and out, loves you and gets you’ best friend is so important. ‘You know why you love him’ she said. ‘you know all the good things about him that made you stay and work at being together. That’s the easy bit. Now remember why you’re not together, why you finally let go. That is the important bit. Those details, all of them, add up to the end.’

It’s true. And being nice, being kind and thoughtful can sometimes hide all that. It is important to do this break up well, but just as important is to remember that it is a break up. Those times when he backed away, told me he didn’t want to be with me, wasn’t sure of wanting to stay, all those times made dents. They hurt, and those hurts added up. And while being kind sometimes, just occasionally, gets in the way of being pissed off.

And I am pissed off. This could have been an amazing time together. My business doing well, he no longer tied to school times we could have had some great adventures of our own. Instead, I wave the daughter off on an exciting life changing experience and return to a home, alone.

 

37. I miss the feeling of being supported.

It is true, I have been watching rather a lot of telly lately. At least I can watch what I choose, not fear of judgement, tutting or one of those ‘watching this crap again’ looks. In my defence it’s cold out, I’m tired, and quite frankly I don’t care. Today is not a great day.

I watched Call the Midwife this evening – one had been recorded so I thought I would. tales of Suffragettes and standing for council, and a husband apologising for not being supportive, and then telling his wife how proud he was of her. It’s funny what can set me off being upset.

Last year – my, what a year – I stood in my local elections. Didn’t win, was quite the outsider, but I did really well. Far better that I’d ever thought. And He had told me how proud he was of me. I spoke in hustings and on panels. I pushed hard against my comfort zone. And I did it all with his support. I had him behind me to lean against when I needed it.

And now I have to learn to be my own support, and it sucks.

I miss the comfort of a hug when you’re feeling low, of a cup of tea brought in when you didn’t know you fancied one. I miss having someone to rest my legs on when I’m sitting on the sofa. I miss the feeling of being supported.

I am, I have said before, privileged to have wonderful, kind, ‘there for me’ friends. Their support and help and kindness has meant everything, and has made certain dark and miserable times much lighter and cheerier. There will, I don’t doubt, come a time when the things I miss are replaced by different joys and positives. I know these moments, when the things that have now gone are leaving big holes in their place, won’t keep being so painful.

It’s just that some times you feel there’s nothing behind you but the back of the sofa.

 

36. The hard thing is that we’re feeling the same pain.

Tuesday looms ahead – it’s Sunday today today – as another one of those massive changes that is happening this month. First my marriage, then the flat, and then it’ll be Tuesday.

Tuesday the daughter starts her travelling. Vietnam for a couple of months, a week or two in Thailand, and then on to the USA for another couple of months. I’ve been filling my head with thoughts of my future, but I’ve very clearly been avoiding thinking about her not being a daily part of it.

I’m proud of her, excited for her, scared, all the normal feelings I imagine most parents have when their kids finally set off on their first big life adventures. But my heart just about breaks with the pain of how I’m going to miss her. But it probably would no matter what else was going on, it’s just that my heart is a bit battered at the moment.

Himself and I took her for dinner together last night. She brought a friend, probably partly because of not really wanting to spend an evening of unknown emotional content and partly to fit yet another bit of socialising in to her alarming full schedule. It was a nice evening, chatting between all of us, laughing with the lively lovely girls and the stories of friends and silly antics. Moments of painful familiarity between me and him as he offered me a sip of his beer to see if I liked it instead of the wine. The awkwardness of a goodbye that we still don’t entirely know how to manage. But still, a pleasant evening.

But now, with daughter out of the house squeezing in a few more visits to friends before she flies away, I really feel how alone i’m going to be. Cat on the sofa beside me, dog on the floor by my feet, and no one else to share a cold lazy evening with. I know I’m not the only one. I know he must feel her absence already. Just as they are starting to get along better off she goes. That must hurt too. The hard thing is that we’re feeling the same pain, sharing the same hurt. But that’s the only thing we’re sharing. And that feels just as sad.

 

35. The ladder isn’t the only precarious thing I’m on. 

I have been redecorating the flat like a thing possessed.

There is a practical reason for this. I’ve started with the spare room, which I now have to turn into a rent-outable space. I have ripped out a big built-in cupboard, reused the wood to make a small built-in wardrobe, pulled up the carpet and underlay, painted the walls and woodwork and fitted laminate flooring.

And I’m bloody knackered. 11pm on Saturday evening I was filling the holes in the walls, getting the cutting in done ready for rolling the next day. By Sunday night I’d done all the painting – well, most of it. Skirting boards all had at least one coat of eggshell finished in readiness for the new flooring I’d put down Monday. I felt a bit manic, like the ladder wasn’t the only precarious thing I’m on. 

But in all this frenzy of activity there feels a bit of control. And even more than that, I’m doing it for me.

The practical reason is financial. I need to get the room rented out fairly soon. Just to ease the burden of paying a mortgage alone, and give me some thinking time without completely stressing out about money. It’s all been stressful enough.

The emotional reason, and I hadn’t fully realise this until it was nearly finished – new colour, new layout, almost new everything – is that I want the room I spent the past two months alone in gone. Some of my darkest moments have been spent there. My sleepless nights trying not to listen to all the noises, tiny and almost unheard sounds, that would remind me that I was wide awake. The room wasn’t filled with lovely things, it had been a spare room that we put stuff because there wasn’t really anywhere else for them. It was pleasant enough, but mostly just functional.

And it became a constant reminder that I was in limbo. Not able, or wanting to go backwards, and not looking forward to a path that I hadn’t chosen.

But now, with the room different, my next step has been actioned by me. Better than sitting around wishing. Although I wish I didn’t ache so much.

But now I have a new future to consider – sharing a space with a whole other person.

I look at the adverts for ‘rooms wanted’ online. It’s like dating, I suppose, with “could I share a fridge with this person” being my big issue. Not much interested in the GSOH but the ‘cleans up in kitchen’ comes high on the list.

But I don’t want to do it. So it’s hard to make it happen. It just feels hollow and joyless and financial. He and I had moved in together, had chosen to have our future together.

This wasn’t it.

 

 

 

34. The confusion between what I want and what I have.

I’m in bed with the cat.

I hasten to add that it’s my bed, although I often feel he thinks otherwise, but that’s cats for you. But the point is that I am trying to actively enjoy a peaceful and relaxing lie-in, just like the cat does, constantly. I’m trying to be more cat.

Lovely breakfast in bed – in spite of a quick trip to the shop to go and get the necessary ingredients. Jobs on the ‘to-do’ list waiting patiently. No one in the flat asking anything of me. More importantly, the dog is at her dad’s.

And that’s where the confusion between what I want and what I have lies. Some days I don’t want to walk the dog. I have no choice if she’s here but the thought of it when its raining, or I’ve slept badly, or I just not in the mood, is such a chore.

But I miss her.

She’s been my constant motivation to get up and do. She lies outside the bedroom door huffing if there’s the slightest suggestion you’re awake but not letting her say hello. She’s the energy you get bounced at you first thing in the morning, the excitement of a walk showing on her face and in her tail. She is the yang to the cat’s yin.

Will I get used to the weekends I don’t have her? Most probably. But it’s another lesson to learn in this new school of life. He and I used to share weekend walks, and usually Sundays were big walks somewhere different. A drive out to Wimbledon or Richmond. A look at the map to try out somewhere we hadn’t been before. Even a quick jaunt to Streatham Common changed the routine. We’d chat and share things that didn’t get discussed at home, all the time throwing sticks and watching her stalk crows or chase squirrels. Walking and talking go together well.

So now I have to get used to some weekends with no walk at all. I remember days when that seemed like a dream. That bliss when the offer of ‘I’ll walk the dog’ was uttered. Now it’s going to be all or nothing. I’ll always know if it’s my turn. No surprise treats.

But this time it’s a whole weekend of chilling like a cat. I’ll work on my purring.

33. So many moments.

We’ve seen each other a couple of times this week. Not for any reason in particular. It’s been ok. Almost pleasant, but with a weight. I think I’m ok, but then a wave of sadness hits and I realise that I’m not. Oh! how that wave hurts.

Today he popped over to see his dad, as they’re working together on something this afternoon. The dog went into meltdown as she was so pleased to see him. And he came upstairs, asked first of course. Hugs with the daughter in the kitchen, so good and so hard to see, when I stand by the door with my arms round myself.

I hand him a few more things I have found of his while I’ve been dissecting the cupboard. And we stand in the hall, talking about how cold his flat is and his new yoga class. We are surrounded the whole time by the photographs I have taken over the years of our lives together. Lots of joyful, funny beautiful photographs. Lots of him and daughter, some of us all, some of just us. I take good pictures. They aren’t your average family holiday picture. And I was, am, always the one with the camera. I have recorded so many moments, printed and framed them and hung them on the wall.

There is a new moment. The one where I ask him if he’d like some of the pictures. Because it seems only reasonable. We look at some of the pictures we both know he loves. There are several pictures of he and daughter on Formby beach. We used to go there regularly when we went to visit my mum in Liverpool. A wonderful, sprawling beach with great light and huge sand dunes. The first time, when the daughter was a toddler, I took a photo of him walking with her walking away from the sea. Holding hands, him carrying his big boots, her with a little sandy bum. We re-took the photo over the years – not the bare bum, but them walking together, away from the sea, while she grew to his elbow then to his shoulder.

And I grieve for the shots I’ll no longer take, and for the pictures no longer there. Not just for the picture itself, I could reprint if that were the case. But for the end of that life we had, the moments we shared. I’m saying goodbye to all of that, just in photo form.

The walls will have more gaps – and what do I fill it with now?

32. It’s sometimes the quick surprising moments that take your legs from under you.

I know healing is no straight line. I’m no dummy, these things take time and no two days are the same. Advice and good words from lovely friends remind me not to beat myself up for having a bad day.

Those days when feeling the grief weighs heavy, like a bag of things you don’t want to carry but you can’t put down. Those days you let in, let them be. They will, and do, pass.

It’s sometimes the quick surprising moments that take your legs from under you. Just when I thought I had prepared myself for a brief, pick something up quickly moment, I knew I was wrong. ‘No, it’s fine’ I tell myself. But it wasn’t, it really wasn’t.

I went to his flat, had been our flat once, to pick up the moving boxes he no longer needs. And there it was. Full of familiar things being unfamiliar. Pictures I’d given him on the wall, the stereo on the shelf, the trunk that had sat in our living room for years now in a new home. All the books which had overtaken our shelves now filling new ones.

And while that was painful to see, the hardest thing was to not help make it nicer, to not move things about to where they would look better. It’s not my job here, although it always had been before. It’s what I do. It’s something I’m good at. They are no longer my things to rearrange. This is not my home, I can’t offer, like I would for a friend, because he’s not that either.

And that hurt.

But then there is always momentary reminders of the silver linings of any cloud, no matter how big it is. He was on the loo when I first arrived and that’s very definitely something I don’t miss.

31. ‘Ours’ has not become ‘mine’ yet.

I am trying to learn not to keep using collective nouns. It’s only words – and don’t get me wrong, I understand the power of words as much as anyone -but it’s habit, like a reflex, a knee jerk. I’m not even thinking about him particularly. But it’s those things that were part of us both, were together stuff, that I’m finding the hardest to rename. ‘Ours’ has not become ‘mine’ yet.

So far, mostly, this isn’t painful. It’s just a thing to remember – another thing. But, of all the things we had to separate I didn’t think language was one them.

And it’s these details, all the little bits of life that add up. They become a mesh. A web that a life together spins around you. It’s not until you are trying to do something else that you realise how strongly tied you are by all those many little threads.

That’s why the healing is so slow. It’s not the big cut, but the hundreds of tiny ones which make you flinch and take your breath each time you feel that little sting.

So gradually I will remember that it’s ‘me’ not ‘we’. There’ll come a stage when won’t bother me when I get it wrong. I just wonder how long it will take to get used to getting it right.

30. How can it hurt so much when you’re pleased to see someone?

A scary first step is about to be taken.

I was out walking the dog after work when I bumped into him. The first time we’ve seen each other since he left to go on his walk last year. It shook me badly. How can it hurt so much when you’re pleased to see someone? That mix of wanting to run into that reassuring hug I knew so well and wanting to run away.

So we said “hello. How are you?” instead. Neither of us really able to say.

Earlier in the day he had asked if he could collect a bread tin. He was going to call by to pick it up this evening. But instead, having a surprise meeting earlier I suggested a beer in the pub. The idea, as I sat there waiting, was making my stomach churn. But it had to happen sometime. And this might make it easier, more neutral, less emotional.

But nothing could make it less emotional. It just hurts. There are looks between us while we chat that share pain and sadness and distress. There are silences we cannot fill. And there are tears that, despite my best efforts, are rolling fast and free down my face.

I can only hope that this gets easier. It was a good thing to do. We have set a president for an hour that can be shared well. We could have talked of important things but this time, this first time it is all too raw.

I’ll get better at seeing him. There’ll be a point when a sense of humour between us returns, when I can look at him and not break.

And next time he can get the round in.

29. No-one else’s toothbrush in the pot.

So the New Year and the new life begins. I have returned home and I find the shadows of things that had been there, but not the things. There are spaces. Gaps on the shelves. Rectangles of dust on the wall around a couple of picture hooks. Things I used to walk around that now I don’t have to.

And most painful of all… no-one else’s toothbrush in the pot.

Nothing unexpected either there or not. Well, maybe a couple, but not really a problem. not worth conversation, let alone an argument. I was not in control of everything that he took and none of it looks unreasonable. It’s just gone, and I’m aware of all the painful absences. Things I didn’t even want are noticeable, and, though I think I’m glad they’re not here, it’s the why that is difficult.

The flat has a different feel, like it’s not sure of itself – or is that just me. Because clearly we both have to find a way to be. How to get used to the different noises, what to do when there’s no one else coming home. How to make it feel like I’m glad to be here, not just sad to be here. I slowly have to turn what was ours into what is mine.

Like with most things, some days its ok and some it is most definitely not. I know I’ll be fine. I know things will get easier. I know all the good stuff that all the people that know me well keep telling me. I don’t have the funds to make all the changes I could in one fell swoop, so everything happens one tentative step at a time. But it hurt to sort the bedroom for just myself for the first time in twenty one years. And the pleasure of making the bed up with my favourite bed linen, and nice candles in the room just wasn’t the luxury it could have been.

I did, however, make sure that on my first night back here, alone in my freshly made bed, I slept right in the middle.

 

28. I could pack for holiday using the bags under my eyes.

There a few things that, if at all possible, are really helpful to remember when you are feeling broken and hollow.

One is that All Things Change. Much like ‘This too shall pass’ and ‘tomorrow is another day’ it’s a helpful, if a little smug, reminder that what ever you feel today will be different in the morning. There is the possibility, of course, that you’ll feel worse, but you won’t feel worse forever. Limited comfort when you find yourself sobbing on the floor of your best friends bathroom at four in the morning, but doesn’t make it any less true.

Another helpful tip is ‘stay away from mirrors’. Quite frankly I hardly recognise myself. I could pack for holiday using the bags under my eyes, and I look like I’ve put my makeup on upside down. Lack of sleep is taking its toll on my face. Great! Just what I need. But, based on the facts of the last paragraph, it’ll hopefully go from suitcases to handbags to purses and back to me. Just hope it doesn’t take too long.

But my last pearl of wisdom is ‘be thankful for those that love you’. Yesterday I came to Derbyshire with the dog to be away when he returns from his walk to pack up and leave. I’m in the home of my dearest, best and oldest friend. I feel safe and comforted. Her husband makes me laugh and cry in equal measures with hugs and jokes and honesty. Even the dog has her best doggy friend to play with. I think I can breath a bit here. I’ve been holding things together for quite some time, rather well I think. But now I’m somewhere I can let go. Not all in one go, For fear if being too much of a mess on the floor, but it’s a start.

And for all my wonderful, loving and kind friends I am so very grateful. A small message here, an suggestion of a dog-walk there are kindnesses that remind me I am loved. By people who know me and choose to do so as a result of that. Which when you’re feeling a bit abandoned is the handle to help you stand up again.

27. And there he was, gone.

And there he was, gone – as my Grandfather used to say.

Today, he left to go on his walk bright and early – well, not bright as it was still dark. But most definitely early. Before I was up. Before I’d even known he’d gone before I had. It feels most strange. And not in a good way. But there you are.

I shouldn’t be surprised really. No matter what the order of first out the door I would be upset. I imagine he is too. So this way he gets to not have to deal with it. He has, after all, got his own shit going on. Would I have left extra early? Probably. It’s not like either of us have been sleeping well so you might as well be off as lie about waiting to start you life over.

So now it’s my turn to do that. Open other doors now that some of them have closed. Look to the future and what lies ahead.

But first I have to get through this morning. Because, quite frankly, it’s a hard one.

A dog walk in the company of a good friend is a wonderful thing. Walking, generally, is a good thing. You never come back from a walk regretting that you went, no matter how wet and windy the day. So that helped.

A coffee with his dad, who through all this has been a source of sadness and support. ( I think of all the hearts that have been broken that his is the hardest to bare. ) We get on well and revert to conversations on practical issues of jobs that need doing. Not such a bad thing to do.

And then on to some packing. I’ve filled 4 big bags with a fair share of pots, pans, china, cutlery. I’ve divided up the wooden spoons, potato peelers, ladles and bottle openers. All the double bedding from the spare room and his much loved slow cooker. The daughter sorted tupperware and cookbooks while I piled his chess set and boxing books. Years of accumulation all shifted in a busy hour.

So I’ve done a bit to help. And that will do. The rest is his to manage and box.

And the rest of the rest is mine to rebuild.

26. We sort of had a practice ‘final goodbye’ today. 

I’m alright until I think about the leaving bit. Really, I can be calmly discussing how he needs to take the stereo because it’s really his. I can make helpful suggestions about what order will be the easiest when he talked about the new place and what he’d like to do to it. I laughed about how the dog is going to have to get used to different smells as there’s a kebab shop so close.

But the moment I think about watching him go I just hollow out. It feels like tomorrow is the day of the funeral. The dreaded day that, I know, once it’s over I can start the other life, we both can, but until then it’s the dread and the weight of it presses down.

So, strangely, but nicely, we sort of had a practice ‘final goodbye’ today.

I was trying to do some work on the laptop, with not much success and very little enthusiasm. And he came into the room where I was working, and just stood. ‘Are you ok?’ he asked. ‘Not really’ I replied. “you?’ ‘No, not really’. And then that hollow feeling filled me.  ‘We ought to do some of the sorting together, because I don’t want you to come back and find empty spaces. It’ll be horrible’

So we talked about stuff. And it was ok. Not great, but ok. And I think we both felt understood and appreciated. It helped. He then made some soup so we ate together. It felt calm. Sad, but calm. He said he was setting off early tomorrow – an early dog walk for me then. And tonight he was going to the BFI to see a film. ‘I’m going to walk there’, (it’s only a couple of miles) ‘Do you fancy joining me for a bit of the way?’

That may seem an odd request, but it’s something we’ve done before. It’s a 20 minute walk down to Brixton so it’s a good stop off point for me and I hadn’t moved from the flat all day. So we walked. And slowly talked. About Christmas. About the daughter – how good she is with the generation above us when we both get so impatient. How much better you feel when you’re happy and why people (especially members of the family) seem to think their illnesses and allergies are THE most interesting thing about them. We talked about holiday plans, work coming up, even the weather.

And then came the point when I needed to go home. We needed to go in different directions. So we stopped.

Hugged.

Parted.

I walked home alone. With a pocket full of freshly damp tissues.

It won’t make the real thing any easier, but at least I’ll know how many tissues I’ll need.

25. Well, what CAN you get the man you’re about to split up with for Christmas?

We’ve are currently in the stage where everything we say to each other comes with a bucket load of things unsaid. ‘I’m just going to see Tony’ seems to have become ‘I need to be out of the house and I don’t know when I’ll be back’; ‘Do we have any sellotape?’ has the silent reply of “why the hell don’t you know where things are, seeing as you’ve lived here for 12 years and you haven’t left yet!”

Christmas heightens all of it. Like a game of whack-a-mole, you don’t know what problem or sensitive issue is going to rear it’s ugly head next. Sometimes it’s not what you say, it’s what you do. And on Christmas Day is can also be what you give.

I thought – (spoiler alert – wrongly, as it turned out) that something useful, practical, that he would really need in the flat would be a good idea. Not exactly a housewarming present, but that sort of thing. I didn’t want to give anything really personal, I didn’t want to work out what jumper would suit him, what music he likes, a book I know he’d enjoy. That felt all a bit painful. So I bought a new whistling kettle.

Well, what CAN you get the man you’re about to split up with for Christmas?

He’ll need a kettle. He liked a whistling one we used to have. There’s nothing lonelier than using a saucepan to make your tea when you move.

But I judged it wrong. He felt like I was reminding him that he’s leaving. He felt shoved out, like I was rubbing it in. So, it’s not so much the thought that counts, but who’s having the thought. And what were they thinking? And Oh, so many things to think about.

And that’s how much of our Christmas day went – both of us judging things a bit wrong.

Today, I want all trace of Christmas gone. I’ve left the tree up, but all the cards have been recycled, the crap from the crackers has been binned, decorations are all boxed up and it almost looks back to normal. Whatever that means.

But I can’t say it’s been a joy. It’ll feel better when I can do a charity-shop run to get rid of the horrid jacket he bought me!

 

 

 

24. What the hell can a good goodbye fill you with?with? 

I have a very dear friend who can’t do goodbye’s. Really can’t. She turns in to a wobbly mess if there’s a goodbye buildup. I understand how she feels. Hellos are so much more fun. They don’t come with a feeling of loss or dread. A good hello fills your heart. What the hell can a good goodbye fill you with? 

The Goodbye I cannot bring myself to say is on the horizon. Getting ever nearer and bigger and heavier. Looming, like a big rain cloud.

It’s not been an unpleasant time in the flat in spite of it’s ever increasing presence. We found a new thing to watch together for now (My Brilliant Friend, a wonderful adaptation of the Elena Ferrante novel – if you must know) which, after blog #3 is a welcome surprise. There’s the buildup to Christmas – it’s tomorrow! – so that keeps things busy, making sure we have the day prepared. There’s the fact that he brought home a Christmas tree last week which, though small, is now fully bedecked with silver beads and white lights. (The Christmas tree is often an issue as I love them and he and the surprisingly humbug daughter don’t. So getting one for me this year meant a lot.) There are presents under the tree all wrapped and labelled. From me to him and him to me.  We made no lists this year. Gave no hints or suggestions. So who knows if they’ll be liked or wanted.

But the Goodbye is still sitting about. And in order to say it without saying it I have written him a letter. I’m not sure it’s helped me and I have not idea how he will feel about it. But it feels like the right thing to do. Because I do wish him well. I do hope he’ll be happy. I do hope he finds what he’s looking for. I just find it hard to say to his face at the moment. I think Goodbye and I cry. And, quite frankly I’d like to look relatively ok for at least one day. Especially Christmas day.

So whatever else a good Goodbye might look like, mine looks like some words.

And here’s to a good Christmas.

 

23. It hasn’t been ‘just me’ for years. 

There’s a calm about the flat. I don’t know why exactly, but it’s welcome and it is most definitely needed. It seems as if the boat has stopped rocking and we can now see the horizon. We are of course looking in different directions.

It’s a strange feeling to know that you have you’re whole future ahead of you and you are now responsible for making it happen. I remember having moments in the past when I’ve been excited about all the possibilities that lie ahead. But over the years together the plans, as they do when you’re part of a family, involve considering other people and other things.

But now it’s different.

It’s a bit scary, but actually, over the past couple of days, it’s starting to feel a little bit exciting. And it’s due, in part, to the fact that the issue of the dog’s ‘custody’ is now settled and was a very easy and painless conversation to have and resolve. She will now spend every other weekend at his new home. For all her skittish and quirky behaviour – and she’s a good dog, if a bit neurotic – he’ll just have to make it work. They’ll both have to get used to it. She’ll live with me in the week, although extra dog walks he can fit in during this time have been offered and will be welcome when I’m working.

But suddenly I am being presented with the possibility of weekends with no responsibilities. No restrictions on my time, or where I need to be. The daughter can, and does, sort out herself, and is often so busy living her life that I don’t see her much. So it’ll be just me.

It hasn’t been ‘just me’ for years. 

I’m going to be broke, so some restrictions obviously apply. But I’ve got an amazing city on my doorstep where there is so much to do for free. I’m well. I’m able-bodied. I’ve got friends I can borrow membership cards from. I love walking. I will turn this to an advantage. I am so very very lucky.

That’s how I have to see this. And it’s not a bad thing to be forced to do. Appreciate my privileged position, and pick all the good things I can out of what could be a pile of crap.

Who would have thought that sorting out doggie custody would be the shining light in the dark!

22. Christ, if this isn’t therapy for beginners! 

We’ve had a sort of a break through.

That feeling when you feel so angry you can’t move past it, a complete cloud is covering you and nothing is visible outside it. That is what he’s been carrying for the last few weeks. It has filled the flat with it’s red mist. He would grunt, only say ‘hello’ with an accusation of things unsaid, Give a look that would say much but actually say nothing at all. . But yesterday, when the daughter was harangued for not doing something she was supposed to and then a whole pile of emotions were finally released, the fog finally cleared. He has finally let go of the anger. He said

And now he can see that we’re all hurting about this situation. It’s not just him, and it’s not just about him. He’s not being cast aside just because he’s the one moving out. And the fear he’s been hiding is now out there and spoken about and acknowledged. By him, more than anyone.

Christ, if this isn’t therapy for beginners! 

I had to explain that, while the daughter is indeed a pain-in-the-ass teenager and a bit slack at doing her share of chores around the flat, it’s not all she is. For, while our marriage ends, and we pick our way through the pieces and try to build a different relationship, one of the things we can be rightly proud of is that we grew a good human. She’s clever, kind, interesting, funny, thoughtful, wise, and lots of wonderful things that we helped her become. Yes, she’s many other things too. Aren’t we all? But the weight of all things negative have been placed on her lap and the tension between them both has been mighty of late.

I don’t want them to have a bad relationship. it would reflect badly on our history together if they did. It’s not a competition – who she get’s on best with – because the child / parent bond always changes over the years. She’s had times of being a Mummy’s and a Daddy’s girl. That’s how it should be. Kids should not the weapon of choice in any break up. It isn’t here, and I’ve helped that. And the flat feels better for it.

Next stage… shared custody of the dog!

21. It’s all I can do to put the Christmas cards on the mantlepiece.

There’s a big ‘6’ in the window made out of fairy lights and wire. Our little Brixton Street has an Advent Window thing we do in December. People get a number between 1 and 24 and on that corresponding date we decorate one window with that number so all the neighbours can see. It’s quite fun walking around each day to find the next one. They’re all different, and all lovely. Behind many of the decorated windows the signs of Christmas are starting to show, some have trees decorated, some have wreaths on the front doors.

It’s all I can do to put the Christmas cards on the mantlepiece.

I like Christmas, but he never has, not really. It has aways been me to do the decorating of the tree, the fairy lights around the bannister. I’ve planned stockings, advent calendars, and Christmas cards. And I used to love it.

Can’t say that the build up to Christmas is exactly an exciting one this year.

I can’t help but look back at the festive times I’ve had before him, before our family, when it was just me. The gatherings of friends, all of us avoiding and escaping the ‘Christmas at home’ gloom, so sharing the time in hilarity and chaos that only a bunch of good mates with no pressure to get it right can have. I think of our early years together when we first had our daughter and the magic the a small human can add to the day, how every new fascination with baubles, lights and wrapping paper is the simplest of joys.

We have a few of us for Christmas this, the last, time – if nothing else a respite for the daughter. (There are pros and cons of being an only child and I’ve always felt Christmas was one of the lesser joys if not surrounded by cousins or friends.) There should be lively chat, some laughs, certainly lots of food. It’ll keep things busy and bustling along with all the to-dos of the day. Who does what, chopping and preparing, fitting in a dog walk, the timing of sprouts versus the perfect roasties.

So this will be our last one together. Well, as a couple. No doubt there will be others shared. But our future will be filled with an invite for Christmas, as a guest not a partner. That is a very strange thought to pull out of a cracker.