Tag: friends

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

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

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

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

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

I had entered. I couldn’t help myself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

 

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.

46. So are we starting to be friends?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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.

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.

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.