Tag: breakup

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

 

 

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.

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!

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.

18. Is it only me that’s planning what he needs? 

In my lifetime I have moved quite a lot, and most of that moving was done when I was a child. My father was in the Air Force, and every eighteen months or so off we would all go to pastures new. Sometimes abroad, sometimes not. The upheaval was cleverly absorbed by my mum, who could pack up an entire house in next to no time and have three children, a dog and a family’s worth of belongings ready to be moved with, on one occasion, just over a week’s notice. I have learned to pack up and ship out quickly. I’m good at packing – tricks shared by a busy mum are usually good ones. And I can plan the best order to shift things, what’s essential and what goes where.

I’ve been thinking about how best to divide up the things we have. There is furniture and beds, wardrobes, drawers and a sofa at the new flat. There are dining chairs around a big wooden kitchen table – I know because I built the table myself, the first proper thing I’ve ever made. There’s a cooker, washing machine and fridge. There’s nothing else.

Has he thought about how to divide our stuff? Is it only me that’s planning what he needs? 

I’ve gone through lists of bedding, towels, kitchen things in my head to be as fair as I can. I’m trying not to think about the fact I have bought nearly everything in the house. It was my spare cash that funded an Ikea trip or – and this one does irk – replaced something he broke. I have to leave that thought somewhere marked “get over it”.

But he’s mentioned nothing.

So do I say something? Even suggest that he might like to get some boxes in for the move? Book a van and even a man? If this is his new life ahead of him, to be his own man, forge his own path, then surely he’s going to need a cup for his tea and a pot for his porridge.

I think I’m going to try and shut up and see if he notices. I have tendency to take over in a situation where I know I can sort things. That’s fine when you’re together, but we’re not. It’s not my job anymore – as I keep being reminded (by friends, not him). So I’ll bite my tongue.

Ow!

15. So now I have to pick my anger apart. 

Fridays are always my turn to do the early dog walk. Mondays, Fridays and Saturdays have always been mine since he gave up teaching totally and those are his yoga instructor days. I’ll have to get used to every day is early dog walk day – but that’s hardly the worse thing in the world.

Back to today, and it’s wet and windy. Lovely. You can never take a brolly on a dog walk but it would be nice if my hood stayed up.  I’m walking around Brockwell Park. It’s one of South London’s delights, lots to see and do, beautiful spaces and great views – well, not today obviously. And as I stomp around throwing a tennis ball for an increasingly muddy  dog I suddenly get cross. About an discussion I’m having in my head with the soon to be ex. I’m holding both sides of course ( don’t pretend you don’t do this! ) and his (?!) request is really making me cross. I know it’s not real. But it’s there all the same.

So now I have to pick my anger apart. 

He moves out between Christmas and new year. I don’t want to be here for it. I’ve decided to go up north with the dog for a few days, and especially over New Year’s Eve. I haven’t told him that. I am taking the car – it’s mine anyway as he can’t, and very much won’t, drive. But my anger is that I’m convinced he’ll expect me to help.

There is so much he hasn’t considered, let alone slightly planned for. He’s happy to be going, I can tell. I would imagine that he is trying to keep a lid on it. But how head-in-the-clouds can you be? Does he still expect others to be the grown-ups for him? has he even thought about the logistics, what he’s going to take, what he’ll need? What he’s going to pack it in?

I have. I’ve worked out what bedding he can have so we both have an equal amount of new stuff to get. I know we have plenty of cutlery, china, mugs to share out. I’m thinking about the pots I really like that I’ve bought over the years and which ones I’ll grudgingly part with. I look at the shelves of books and look forward to most of them going. I see virtually a wall full of vinyl going with the stereo. I have walls of pictures – I’ve taken so many over the years – and I don’t mind what he takes, I really don’t. I’ll happily help him pack.

I just don’t want to help him leave.

13. Reality is a real punch to the guts. 

We have a date for the move out, and, despite the fact that i’ve organised its possibility, some how that really hurts. It’s going to be a month sooner that I expected, and it’s reality is a real punch to the guts. I’ve just had conformation by email and he doesn’t even know yet. And I don’t know how I wan’t him to take the news.

I don’t seem to be taking it well at all. Reduced to tears, on my own. A proper low point.

So, how do we do this so it’s ok for me as well? Because, while I’m trying to be ok I’m really not, not right now. This wasn’t what I wanted. I’m scared and shaky and feel as if I don’t get a say.

I do. I won’t feel like this tomorrow, I’ll pick myself up, look on the bright side, and all the possibilities ahead. Blah blah fucking blah!

But once, just once, I want him to say how fucking brilliant I’m being!

12. All whistles and bangs.

I met a friend for a hot chocolate. We had other things to chat about, but then came the “how are you doing?”.

We talked about the ‘ we’re being nice’. How I still get to come home to a cooked meal – he still does much more of the cooking, possibly more so lately. If it’s out of guilt I don’t care, Because left to my own devices at the moment I’d don’t think I’d bother. I’ve stopped eating breakfast, really not much appetite. I can forgo lunch if no one at work suggests going to the cafe. I’m not starving myself, just really not interested. But I’ll eat with others and I’ll eat whats cooked for me.

It’s all still pleasant. There are silences, but they’re not too heavy, yet. There also seems to be a ceasing of hostilities between current husband and daughter, although she’s out such a lot it is hard to tell.

My friend and I talked about what means good in a relationship. I like good, I don’t even mind ok much of the time. I had ‘all consuming’ once. All whistles and bangs, not able to keep our hands off each other, not sure where the passion stopped and the rage began. The balance between the amazing sex and the fist in the wall by my head was a precarious one. That wasn’t good. And once I’d left, had some space, and healed,  I knew that I could never grow in that life. Nothing can. I didn’t want that, and I knew, have always known, that I wouldn’t go there again. Feeling safe, supported, left to be myself, is the route – should it be root? – that I sought.

The H (I really have to find a term) had one of those moth to a flame type loves. Five years of destruction that they kept going back to. I know she still appears in his dreams sometimes. (Will I, when we’re done?) Their rock and roll lifestyle (no music included) left him bruised and confused. But, in that land of passion, obsession, fixation, where nothing healthy appeared to flourish, was the foundation of what is expected of a relationship set in stone for him?

You’d have thought that these are the things we should know by now. But who picks apart the workings of a marriage when they’re in it. There didn’t seem a point at which to analyse everything, and nothing ever seemed so bad that I knew we were doomed. But may be  my choice to be somewhere in the middle, not on the edges where the ‘all consuming’ extreme lives is only enough for me. H may need the crazy times to feel that it all means something. I know I don’t. They don’t mean you love more, they just mean you’re loud about it. I have a loud laugh, that’ll be enough for me.

11. When do you stop wearing your wedding ring?

I finished work today and came home to have a much needed shower. I’m a decorator and today was a very grubby work day. Ceilings and walls to sand, messy builders about creating dirt and dust, being clean was all I wanted to be when I left the site.

In the shower, surrounded by lotions and potions, I suddenly looked at my hands to see how they had survived the day. Then it hit me. When do you stop wearing your wedding ring?

My husband had made our wedding rings. For someone who had never been one who could be considered artistic or romantic on any level, ever, this was quite an amazing and precious thing for our wedding. Mine never quite fitted, and was far from perfect, and I loved it. He had always shied away from ever buying me a ring of any kind before. An eternity ring bought for my 40th was a strange and somehow begrudging event it had never seemed to be the fun and special item I’d hoped such aa gift could be. I haven’t worn it for some years.

The whole idea of a ring is now invested with power and a history of our relationship that I’m aware as soon as I start to unpick it all the evidence leading up to now will be shining at me like a beacon on a hill. All those moments I felt that he was on the back foot, never quite fully committed. Playing defensively rather than going for it. Was that our whole time together? Did I fill in the gap in his commitment? For a wedding ring? Was what I could show people really just for show?

And so now what does it mean for me to take it off? I haven’t as yet. It feels so very final as a statement. I’d miss it.

And I do like a nice unique bit of silver jewellery.

10. It helps to have a dog

There have been some mornings when we are both up and about at the same time, getting ready for a day of whatever. Some of the mornings are delicate. Both of us are under-slept and heavy from a restless night. There is a light covering of eggshells around which to negotiate. To be nice, but avoid anything deep – because the other one is no longer there to help with the fog of a morning. We tip toe around.

This is when it helps to have a dog.

I appreciate that this is not an option for all. It comes with complications – not least of all the soon to be shared ownership. It certainly comes with expense which may well be part of the up and coming discussions.

But as an ice breaker there is no finer creature to have about. Daft on a fairly permanent level she has a special energy in the morning born of the assumption that playing with her is, clearly, the most fabulous way to start the day. Toys are brought, beds are bounced on, licks are handed out freely.  And she’s right, it does help. She makes you laugh. She makes you shout when a hearty nudge from a big wet nose makes you spill your coffee. She wags you into positivity whether you wanted it or not.

And there’s the walking – regardless of mood, tension or weather. That really helps. After five minutes of being forced out of the house you know it was a good idea.

She was right again.

So borrow one if you can. Because they don’t take sides. They don’t judge the relationship. They’re better than having children around for quenching an argument with their big brown eyes and their flat ears.

And they are all a very good size for a hug,

9. Is trust enough?

We’ve been together for twenty one years. Yes, there has been ups, downs and probably all sorts of directions. But, despite the fact that we are not going to be together any more, there is still trust.

But is trust enough?

Because we need to talk about the big, financial things. And those are the areas that seem to me to be the sticky points. How do we have the conversations about what’s fair when it can’t be just split down the middle? I appreciate that no matter where you live this isn’t easy. And we’re lucky, we have a home to divide. It’s at least a problem to solve, not just a problem.

The plans we lay out now point the way to making this real. Real, and so very permanent. And that, today, feels very painful. It lays down a future that I didn’t think was coming and I’m not sure that I’m ready for, although I know I’ve no choice and I have to stand up and take it on.

It isn’t enough to have a ‘gentleman’s agreement, although I wish it were. Because he is a gentle man. But I need to feel safe, and it’s not even just about me. Child, dog, cat, Father-in-law downstairs – they’re all going to be up to me (well, not really the father-in-law, he’s quite self sufficient) and it’s going to be hard. I’m going to be broke. But broke is one thing. Insecure is another matter.

We’re going to have to get advice. Make things legal.

Christ – as if things aren’t depressing enough!

8. Today is a wobbly one.

Not all days are the same, a truism that’s a constant no matter how the world is doing. But today is a wobbly one. Feeling worried, anxious, scared – you know the sort of thing. Knot in your stomach, tears threatening, throat feeling tense.

To look on the bright side we’re still chatting, nicely, about stuff. I mean not the serious bit – moving out details, finance (oh, the dreaded finance). Just about the dog, my photographs (currently in an exhibition, good to be sidetracked by something positive that isn’t just work) would you like porridge. There’s a friendly atmosphere – if a little tentative.

So the subject of ‘restorative yoga’ comes up. Yes, I know, not your usual topic for a Thursday morning. Well, it could be, I’m not one to assume. It’s not usually top of my list, that’s all. But while I do yoga fairly frequently – or practice, as I think you’re supposed to say – I find that fairly gently yoga is lovely, but lying around hugging a bolster is not my favourite. “That’s because you don’t relax.” he says

Don’t I?  Really? Well not at the bloody moment, I think. I don’t say it out loud of course. I don’t feel that there’s a lot to relax about. But have I been like this for a long time? I’ve always used my energy to do something – often paint something (walls not art!) or garden or just be active in some way. I don’t think I’m fidgety, just that there’s a lot to do. So I often just do it. But in the months, and, possibly years that things have slowly been peeling apart between us maybe I’ve lost my ability to chill. Just be.

And that makes me feel wobbly too. Because my tension is useful sometimes. It can be a good energy. It’s made me do things I probably wouldn’t have done under the cover that it’s better to act then stand still.

Deeds not words, she says while writing.

But even this writing is an action. It’s an outlet, albeit an action of the mind and fingers alone. But I can’t knit so it will have to do. And maybe, after I’ve taken the dog out and finished painting the door I won’t feel quite so wobbly.

6. So why was that ok for me and not for him?

Its a strange thought that all this ‘normal’ is going to be over. The ‘stuff’ of a relationship. The together, the compromises, the disagreements. Different tastes that somehow muddle along together, choices agreed over. Have we just spent the past twenty years not getting what we wanted and putting up with the results?

So why was that ok for me and not for him?

This wasn’t my choice, but I just gave up the fight to keep it being ok.The consequences of the decision are now starting to hove into view. I don’t imagine that it’s an easy set of sums for anyone. One does not divide neatly into two. And it’s not two as our daughter is very much still at home – and why not. There’s also the cat and the dog. So we have the what to do, how to do, what comes – or, very probably  goes first. This is where I test my resolve. Because, this really isn’t what I want to do. I’m home. I’ve made it home. I’ve painted and sanded and bought things and hung things. The walls are full of pictures I’ve taken (more of that another day) and the garden is full of things I’ve grown. I re-read that and it looks like it’s all been me, but actually, it mostly has. It’s what I do, and here, where we’ve lived for eleven years, it’s what I’ve done.

Therefore my next challenge is how to break this home well, because right now I can’t see how that can be done. I don’t, more specifically, want to do it. Being difficult isn’t going to help, but we are going to be talking money and value and worth. And that’s a whole world of complication and unpleasant that is hard to be nice about. Does the fact I spent my time painting balance out the money he put into a pension that, now, only he will benefit from? Does the time out of work for having out daughter, and rebuilding a new career to fit in with her give me a baby bonus? Or do we now find out how sexist the system really is. Because I am living in my pension. It was always going to be that way.

All these tentacles of a relationship are entwined around everything. This is going to be a delicate operation to pull them apart.

5. An Evening Alone

We have a chalk board, well, in fact a whole wall, on which we leave notes. Things we’ve run out of, reminders, I’ve fed the dog signs. There’s been one on for a week or two saying BFI 8pm. When I came in from work today, about 4pm, there was an arrow pointing at this message.

So it appears that it was me and the dog tonight.

And I’m tired. Really – lay down on the sofa, under a blanket, speak to no one – tired. Sleep at night is currently a rather intermittent affair. Podcasts and audiobooks are being consumed at quite a rate. So lie on the sofa is exactly what I did. A good doze, a catch up on a backlog of things recorded (see How to watch telly )

It’s a strange feeling because I should be doing things, There’s a whole table full of pictures and mounts that need to be sorted. Stuff I have to read. And always house doings. But I feel the need to hibernate. I wish I could. Miss out winter and the festive nonsense and wake up when it’s all over. Now there’s a thought.

Because the weight of what is to come feels like a mighty snow drift. And I don’t want to just be left arrows pointing to things.

4. We Need To Tell You Something

And now on to the next person.

Downstairs we went to tell my father-in-law, my one day to be ex husband’s dad. This one really hurt. Even now I keep welling up, getting that awful pit of the stomach feeling. Because this good, kind, annoying, funny, practical man won’t be my father-in-law, and that breaks my heart. That moment when I realise that this huge family that I’ve been part of for twenty one years won’t be mine has hit me badly, and even now, especially now, I want to say more, to fill in the gaps, to make it make sense.

But it doesn’t really make sense. It’s just two people wanting the same things, but just not the same way. Wanting better. He just gave up before me. And I don’t blame him. I want better too.

But to say it out loud is really, really hard. And there’ll be more soon. More shocks, gasps, whats?! Because no one has seen this coming. Or have they? Soon find out I suppose as the news slowly seeps out through the branches of the family and friends. So the test of our relationship (that was) will now be in the way we can still be as we were but in a new way.

Many of our friends are intertwined as neighbours and also people himself works with. And thats complicated. Oh! it’s all complicated I suppose. So do we tell everyone together? Stick it on the street email group, pop it on the community facebook page? There has been a strength and a gentleness about telling people together. But I am joking about the facebook page.

3. How To Watch Telly

There were a gaggle of teenagers for dinner. Lovely, loud girls and the conversation bounced. We talked about listening to podcasts and watching tv. And a point was made.

“My dad won’t sit and watch things me and my mum want to watch just to be together and I watch things with my dad that I don’t really care about. He just won’t watch something he’s not into.”

Now theres a thing.

“Yes,” says current husband (ok, I need to think of a new term) “It’s such a waste of time. You could be doing something together. Why not make a cake together rather then watch Bakeoff, it’s just crap lazy telly. It’s a waste of my time”

And I think of the football I’ve watched, just to share. Or the fact that we haven’t done things together instead, because, quite frankly, I can’t be arsed baking at 8pm when i’ve been on my feet all day and I like a bit of Sandi and Noel of an evening.

But it’s good to know that it’s not just us. That many make separate viewing choices. It’s finding the common program that’s the challenge. So, of the things the other watches here’s My ‘Nope list’ – Boxing, League Football, Horror films, Anything with Larry David. Here’s His (I’m fairly sure of this) Strictly, Most comedy – especially Stand up, Virtually all Reality stuff. Common ground appears to be the occasional series, and, curiously, Dragon’s Den.

So this evening we sat on the sofa, in that familiar, comfortable way we have, and watched the last episode of Get Shorty.

And I wonder if we’ll find another. Which makes me feel terribly sad. Because now I don’t know if we’ll try.

We’re going to be sharing the house for quite a while yet. This split is not a quick one – is anyone’s? And we have one living room. But it’s the thought of taking off to watch what you want on the laptop that feels strange. To not make the ‘together’ effort anymore. If we have decided not to be is that what we have to start doing now? Practice so that when he leaves we have developed a new normal, and it doesn’t feel as bad? One thing doesn’t feel as bad.

How do we watch telly? isn’t one of the questions I thought would come up.

2. Am I imagining it?

I listen to the radio at work. I’m on my own most of the day and I usually need a distraction of some sorts. BBC London out of preference, if my usual presenters are on. Bit of 6 music, occasionally Radio 4.

You know the usual people of a certain age type stuff – news-ish. bit of music. chat.

But am I imagining it or was all the music about leaving?

Yes I know, I’m being oversensitive. It’s like seeing pregnant bumps when you’ve had a miscarriage. Like I’m tuned in to it. I am going to make an effort not to care. Or keep a count.

And now onto other matters. To tell the next person. His dad, who lives in the bottom half of the house no less. Separate, but not that separate. (I’ve just clocked that the adjective and the verb are spelled the same – what a difference a bit of emphasis makes.) But downstairs we must go, because, now comes the conversations we must have. And to have them without pointing fingers, without getting each person to take a side. And quite frankly, details are nobody’s business right now. And will they help, make each telling easier to hear?

We’ve not been angry for months so there hasn’t been shouting to hear. There hasn’t been floods of tears, things thrown, doors slammed. We have had calm, things done together, even the odd laugh. A recent family wedding where we were the life and soul of the reception. Just back from a holiday which we carefully enjoyed. We have hidden things from ourselves, so there’s no reason for anyone to guess.

But downstairs we must go. Together, for now. To continue the process, and include the others.

1. Can We Do This Well?

There is a thought that many of us have, at different times, for different reasons.

I can do this better. 

So on the first step of this strange and unknown journey we have, together, put it out there.

We uttered the words “Dad and I are breaking up”. They are not 6 words with which you want to start a conversation. The three of us that have been will now be…. what? Three but different? Two and Two? Three times One? We are family, just not exactly a family unit. Except we are. And will be for quite a while.

So how we manage this, to be kind, to be supportive, to be nice, will be the test.

Can We Do This Well?

As these blogs unfold, in order, we shall see the path we tread. 

……………………………………………………………….

A relationship breakup, often referred to simply as a breakup, is the termination of an intimate relationship by any means other than death. The act is commonly termed “dumping [someone]” in slang when it is initiated by one partner. Wikipedia