Archive | February, 2014

The Reclaiming of New York

28 Feb

Today I found out I’ll be going over to New York for work soon. Not ’til April, and just for a week, but it’s always nice to get time in a different office and do a bit of travelling.

This particular trip is very, very important, however. It’s The Reclaiming of New York.

The last time I was there was the summer. I was visiting the ex, when he was working there for the summer, when we were still very much in love (or so I thought), when he would set his alarm so he had time to cuddle me before getting up to go to work every morning. I was there for ten days. Six days later he got back to London, ate half a pizza, and broke my heart.

Obviously while I was in New York he made his decision.

Stupid man.

Since then, I haven’t liked to think about New York too much. Even catching up on the final season of Gossip Girl made me a little queasy. While I love my weekly dose of Girls, it reminds me of the day I walked to Brooklyn, missed Williamsburg somehow, ended up in the ghetto and was nearly assaulted by an obese man. When I saw my ex that night I was tired and told him my tale. He couldn’t have cared less.

This time New York is mine, baby.

I’m going to walk the length and breadth of it making new memories. Memories about me. For me.

I might even make it to Williamsburg.

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Ugly aggression

27 Feb

I think I have a few issues with displaced anger.

I’m so mad at my ex. So mad. Mad at him for treating me like crap. Mad at him for saying he loved me when he didn’t, and saying he wanted to marry me when he didn’t, and hassling me to move in with him. Grrrrrrr. Mad at him for not loving me.

I’m also mad as a March hare about some sh** that went down with him. Like when he got paint on his stupid shoes and trampled it into my carpet. And the time I made him breakfast, then went to the supermarket to get food for him staying that week, and when I got back he was still on the sofa in his underwear and hadn’t even put our plates in the sink, let alone the dishwasher.

Ahahahahahhahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

Problem is, I have no outlet for this anger.

Except Irish Two.

Irish Two is a curious cat. He’s pretty much not affectionate. But he’s not a bad person. No, no.

Last night he stayed at mine. I had seen my therapist after work so a few issues were fresh in my head.

As a result, I slept very aggressively.

I’m ashamed to say that I kicked him in his sleep. I pushed his head off my pillow. I shouted at him to stop snoring and stop moving around.

I apologised this morning. I truly felt terrible about it.

And even angrier at my ex for turning me into this cold-hearted person who attacks others in my sleep.

What a bitch.

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My ex’s niece

25 Feb

Last night on my way home I passed a little girl with long, blonde hair.

No big deal, there are loads of kids in my neighbourhood.

But she looked just like my ex’s niece.

And I had a real soft spot for my ex’s niece. 

She was the first one of his family who I met – over Skype when he was home for Christmas.

We hung out together when she and her Dad came to stay in London last Easter. We both love horses and drawing. We had great talks about seahorses and  how annoying boys can be, and cats and hairstyles and chocolate.

Whenever we visited in Ireland, she was excited to see me. She was mad about me. The ex’s brother said so.

She must be taller now. And even smarter.

I don’t know what my point is here.

I miss that little girl.

I miss everything connected to my ex.

And, if I’m honest, I still miss him. Loads. 

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Call the plumber

24 Feb

Last night, my toilet broke.

It stopped flushing.

I was propelled into a panic when I discovered you can’t just lift the lid on the cistern when you have a top button flush (check me out with all my plumbing terms).

After some Google and YouTube research, I took the flush apart and got the lid off. I looked into the cistern and realised I had absolutely no idea what I was doing.

So I sent Irish Two a text, complete with photo.

He’s a man.

He should know what to do.

He replied, “Just call a plumber.”

Call a plumber?

Call a plumber!

I’d already invested a good forty minutes taking the bloody thing apart. There was no way I was paying someone to take a look at it.

So I called my Dad. And, sure enough, with a few instructions over the phone, we soon had it fixed.

Call a plumber.

Really.

This man is going to be no husband of mine.

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Happy half-birthday to my little blog

21 Feb

It was six months ago today that I started my silly, little blog.

I remember the day well. I was sitting at my desk in my old office, crippled with anguish and mental exhaustion. Two and a bit weeks since the pizza of doom, I had hardly slept and was uncapable of doing, well, just about anything.

But I had been reading breakup blogs. In fact, I tended to get to work about 10.30, log on, look up some breakup blogs, and sit and read until 5.30, when I’d get on the bus and cry all the way home. Yup, August was a joy.

That day, on the 21st of August, I just started writing. And writing. And writing. And it started to feel better. Just a little. But better, nonetheless.

I didn’t expect to hear back from anyone. As far as I was concerned I was just packaging my misery up in words and sending it off into cyberspace where it could no longer hurt me. But hear back I did. From people all over the world going through similar things. people who had been through similar things. I got my very own little breakup community.

It still hurts. I think it always will. But my blog has proved such a great source of relief, therapy and camaraderie.

Happy half-birthday to you, Pizza of Doom.

I’m very, very proud of you.

 

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All the things that I don’t know

19 Feb

I was emailing a friend today, and the ex came up.

The friend said, “Remember, this isn’t something that he did to you. It’s just something he did. He didn’t see a future with you.”

Ouch.

Six months on, that still stings.

I don’t know why he’s on my mind so much at the moment.

I don’t know why he couldn’t see that future with me.

I don’t know why for months and months he told me that he could.

I don’t know why he told me he’d spent his whole life looking for me, and that he’d never let me go. Or why he rushed to introduce me to his family. Or how he could possibly have turned so cruel.

I don’t know if he thinks about me. If he cares about me. If he remembers me.

I don’t know what’s wrong with me.

I don’t know if I’ll ever meet anyone who does see a future with me. Or if I’ll meet anyone who I see a future with. Or if I’ll ever see past him.

I don’t know why he did this to me.

And, while I know that really it isn’t something he did to me, I don’t know how to stop it feeling that way.

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Confusion loves company

18 Feb

The best thing about writing a blog is that you get a whole bunch of new friends.

Especially when those friends are going through exactly the same things that you are.

While my real-world friends are getting married, having babies, and generally being blissfully happy, my dear blogger buddies are feeling the same things that I am. Misery. Pain. Shock. Little bursts of hyper happiness. And confusion. We’re a complex herd of cats right now.

Back in August when I started my blog, I was so deeply, deeply heartbroken. Nothing comforted me more than hearing the stories of others in the same situation. And getting to know others in the same situation.

You all know who you are.

In fact, we’ve often mused over how insane it seems that we experience the exact same feelings at the exact same time. Like were all living by some breakup calendar.

What surprises me now, six months on, is how our paths have continued to collide. Now, I find myself “seeing someone”, as many of you are. And I’m confused as f***. As many of you are.

A couple of days ago, luciddream85 asked, “What are we supposed to do?”

Though I know she was feeling and sharing despair at the time, I loved this comment. It hit a nerve. There’s such empathy in this question. Such a sense of community.

Because things do get easier, but it’s still one hell of a bumpy ride. Well, there aren’t any heartbroken cats I’d rather be on this rollercoaster with.

Here’s to the next six months, buddies.

Love you lots.

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He’s just not him

17 Feb

Obviously yesterday I was thinking about my ex. Hence the post dedicated to him. Hence crying. Hence going to bed early and tossing and turning until I took a sleeping tablet.

It’s been a while since that happened.

And I don’t think it’s unrelated to Irish Two.

Irish Two and I had a lovely meal at this fancy restaurant he had booked on Saturday night. I arrived looking as hot as I possibly good. Straight hair, tight dress, red lips, even heels. My feet hate heels. He didn’t greet me by telling me I looked nice, of course. He greeted me with news from his day on a comedy writing course. Hmph.

At some point during dinner he did tell me that I looked nice. At some point he held my hand.

When the bill arrived, we played ‘guess how much money we spent’. I was horrified to hear the result. I reached into my purse for my Amex and – thankfully – Irish Two said he would pay and that I could pay next week. I like this system. Each week one of us plans the date and then pays for it. This works for me. I can keep things within budget if I want to.

We went back to his and had some good sex.

(I then developed a really sore stomach and lay in bed terrified that I was going to vomit. As he shares a house with three other guys and there are three flights of stairs between his room and the bathroom, this was a very distressing situation.)

In the morning we went for breakfast.

I just don’t feel like he cares about me. I’m someone for him to hang out with on Saturdays. Someone for him to have sex with.

I feel like I need to raise the subject. Not to ask him to be my boyfriend – I don’t want that right now. But just to ask how he sees me, what he feels about me.

It’s hard because, of course, I compare things. With my ex I felt so loved, so cherished, so wanted, so cosy. And yet – surprise surprise – he never meant any of it. With Irish Two I don’t feel any of those things. Really, which is the preferable situation?

I talked to my Mum about my date last night. Of course, leaving out the sexual details. I told her that I like Irish Two, that we have loads to talk about, that I fancy him, that he’s fun.

She asked, “But?”

“But he’s not [ex’s name went here].”

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Dear person who broke my heart

16 Feb

It’s more than six months since you destroyed me.

And I’ve almost put myself back together.

The crying comes less frequently. The tears are not as hot and heavy. It doesn’t catch me unawares on the bus, at work, at the gym, trying to find cash to pay for my morning coffee. But when I do cry, it burns in my heart.

I sleep now. I sleep a lot. Probably too much. Often more than ten hours a night. My mum says it’s because I didn’t sleep for months. She says to let myself rest. So I do. And some days it’s still easier not to be awake.

I haven’t been ill in two weeks, which is a record. I’ve never taken so many medications in my life. I’ve never felt so weak, or frustrated. I eat healthily. I guzzle massive bowls of broccoli, spinach, beetroot, satsumas. And when I treat myself to an unhealthy snack, it leaves me feeling sick to my stomach.

I’ve nearly stopped boring my friends. Your name comes up less. But it’s hard to say it without my voice cracking. I have better friends than I could hope for, and your recklessness has brought them closer to me.

I’m seeing someone. In most ways he’s nothing like you. I don’t know yet if that’s a good or a bad thing. I find it hard to trust, to connect, to be the affectionate girl I used to be. I question things. I overthink every kiss.

We would have been going to Japan next month. I thought we’d get engaged while we were there. It was your idea to go. Which still confuses me.

I’ll be 32 in a few weeks, and life is not at all what I expected. But it doesn’t hurt as much. I do enjoy my life again. I enjoy writing, reading, seeing my friends, planning trips, thinking about the future.

Like I said, I’ve nearly put myself back together.

But when I allow myself to think of you, I can’t help but wonder. How could you do this to me?

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Valentine’s Day

14 Feb

I’m on the bus, rushing home to make pizza for Irish Two coming over for our House of Cards marathon.

Last year at this time I was in a taxi, rushing home to make pizza for my ex. I was in a taxi because I’d bought him a case of wine he loved that I had tracked down online. With great difficulty. And at great expense.

While I made the pizza he drank 3/4 of the bottle of champagne he’d bought me. I gave him a short story I had written him about robots and love. Hard to explain, but it did make sense and was extremely romantical and well-written. He gave me a My Little Pony.

This year I have no expectations. I enjoy Irish Two’s company. I want to eat pizza. House of Cards is awesome. That’s all there is to it.

And, right now, that’s all I need.

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