Tag: break up

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.

 

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.

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?

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!

19. Who the hell takes a walking holiday just before they move house?

When is a break up not a break up? When one of the party doesn’t leave…

Ok, so I know we’re taking this whole ‘end of us’ thing calmly, nicely, gently. But it’s still happening. Isn’t it? Or have I just moved into the spare room, upset lots of people and lost half a stone just for the fun of it. Because it only seems like it’s me that’s doing anything about his choice to move. FFS! I am so confused I’m not even cross.

These are the facts that have been shared: The flat he moves into will be empty from 29th December. I am away from 29th December. Daughter is having a party in the home he is leaving on 31st December. Having discussed his moving – yesterday I even brought up my concern for his lack of planning and perhaps he’d like to get some boxes or that sort of thing – today he announces he’s off on a walking holiday from the 27th for a few days.

Have I missed something?

I’m quite ready to get to the stage when I miss him. I’m just worried that it’s not going to happen.

Who the hell takes a walking holiday just before they move house? I think I may be changing my mind on this ‘can we do this nicely” plan. Because right now I want to hit his big selfish head with a massive stick. I get that it’s hard to do things sometimes – that’s usually when you ask for help. I understand that the move may be freaking him out – I’m scared too. I worry about him, about me. But I’m trying to move forward, and I don’t expect anyone else to do it for me. Surely he knows he’s got to pull his finger out, sort the move, the stuff, his life. Has his head been in the clouds (I refrain from saying up his arse) for so long he’s forgotten that there’s a world out there that takes some organising. How spoiled is he?

And what the hell do I do about it?