Tag: conversations

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.

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.

20. It isn’t enough to say things clearly.

So often I’ve heard that communication is the key to good relationships. It’s a fair call. It makes sense that if you’ve made yourself understood that the other parties have a better chance of helping in a situation in a way you need them to. It isn’t enough to say things clearly, or even make sure someone has heard you, but to make completely sure that what you are meaning is, without doubt, clearly and totally received.

And that’s the key I have clearly missed of late… I thought I had made something obvious and I hadn’t.

It’s easy to go down the root of “does he not know me at all” but that really isn’t going to pay off for either of us. So I’ll swallow my retorts and start again. Breathe.

I cannot be here when he leaves.

I can help him pack, sort out things he’ll need, divide the stuff we’ve gathered over the years, but I won’t help him load a van and drive away. The thought of it still draws the biggest lump into my throat. It’s the moment I panic with the weight of it all. I said it to him last night and I could barely get the words out. How does he not know how deep this pain goes?

But this is not about what he should know about me, because, just maybe, that’s part of why we are over and starting down different paths. I have assumed things that I thought were obvious over the years, but they were possible only obvious to my way of thinking. I know we think differently. I can’t say one is better than the other (well, I could, but that wouldn’t really help) but I have to learn that from this point on to make things so damn clear there isn’t room for a misunderstanding. Not to rely on the fact that he used to ‘get’ me. Maybe he never did, it just seemed like it.

So, a lesson, a painful one, learned. But at least he isn’t expecting me to wave him off anymore.

17. So why is it only me that’s telling anyone?

South London parks are full of bright green, squawking parakeets. There are many theories as to how they got there. Stories range from Jimmy Hendrix letting some out of a house in Tooting, to an escaping flock from a travelling magic show. The most delightful is that they escaped from Shepperton Studios during the filming of The African Queen. Today, on a wintery but sunny day I strolled around the park with the nattering dazzling birds doing the occasional fly-past. The noise as the birds chatter to each other, whether two or three or a large noisy flock is funny and somehow, strangely reassuring.

I walked in the company of two wonderful, kind women who started off as neighbours – and still are – and have become good good friends. And we talked.

It’s really hard to start the sentence that finishes with “he and I are separating’. It feels trite to say ‘I’ve got some news’. ‘I have something to tell you’ feels overly dramatic – even though this is a big big drama. I am finding this announcements really tricky – and no one is expecting it.

They’re all being lovely. Supportive and practical, with offers of a cuppa when needed, or a space on the sofa and some crap telly if uncomplicated company is required. These friends are the family we choose, and their value is immense.

So why is it only me that’s telling anyone?

He spent an evening last week in the company of one of our local friends, a few doors away. A couple of drinks, and a few hours talking. But he didn’t say the biggest thing of all. I did ask why not, but the answer wasn’t really there. I don’t know if he’s scared, embarrassed, too upset. I’m all of those. It’s not like the opportunities aren’t there. Those one to one moments can be easy to create. If I can do it..

I know it doesn’t get any easier in the telling. I still have the hardest conversation ahead of me, which I have so far avoided, and that isn’t helping. But there are reasons – not the least that I have to do it by phone. But letting people know has to be done, the word has to get out. And people, as I often find about most things, are nearly always lovely.