Tag: packing

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.

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

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

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

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

Have I missed something?

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

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

And what the hell do I do about it?

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.