Tag: gone

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.

27. And there he was, gone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And the rest of the rest is mine to rebuild.