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Graduation

29 Jun

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I don’t remember the exact date (which is funny when I think of all the dates and anniversaries that I do obsess over), but it was ten years ago right around this week that I graduated from university. I was 22 years old. I was blonde (with the help of a lot of chemicals). I was fat (with the help of a lot of burgers, beer and biscuits). And I had absolutely no idea what was next.

Some of my friends were going travelling, taking time off to explore Australia and Thailand and other exotic locations. Some of my friends were coming back to university to start post-graduate studies. I had a vague idea that I wanted to work in marketing, a job in an olive oil shop, and a holiday in Spain booked with my friend Francesca.

But I wasn’t worried. Well, not exactly. I do remember about ten months later having a bit of a breakdown on my parents because I wanted someone to plan things with and someone to help me decide what to do with my life. But for the most part, after graduation I concentrated on me. I lost a TONNE of weight. I dyed my hair back to its natural dark, dark brown. I made new friends through my job. I learned how to run an olive oil shop (funny what you can do with a law degree). I moved back home with my parents for a while, and I learned to enjoy my family’s company in a way that you just don’t when you’re a troublesome teenager, full of angst and desperate to leave home.

Gradually, little by little, my life fell into place. I moved to London on my own. I got that job in marketing, and new friends, new adventures and even new boyfriends were waiting.

Right now, I feel like I’m on another one of these life precipices. I have to cross my paws and hope for the best when I say this but: I feel like I’m over my ex. It has definitely been the worst year of my life, but I am finally emerging through the darkness. And – it has to be said – I’ve learned more in the past year than I did in my four-year university degree.

I don’t think it’s just me, either. One of my greatest supports for the past year has been my blog and my blogger community. I’ve followed many of you on your own journeys as we navigate through the heartbreak and find ourselves battered, bruised, but ultimately changed for the better at the other end of the tunnel. Some of us are even friends now. And I’ve noticed the changes in you too as the clouds lift and you refocus and – ultimately – move on. So I feel like our little breakup community is graduating too.

There’s other stuff going on. I graduated my yoga course last week. Official graduation involved doing handstands which is some of the most fun I’ve had in months. I’m also graduating therapy (although I’m pretty sure that’s not the professional term for it). It’s another story for another blog, but it turns out my therapist and I had a big misunderstanding at the session before my last one. She thinks I’m doing great. And she’s a pro – she knows her stuff, right?

So, ten years after that sunny day in Edinburgh when we got our degrees, had lunch with our families (as you can imagine, fat April particularly enjoyed that part of the day) and then went out drinking and dancing all night long, I feel like I’m graduating from the biggest learning experience of my life.

I’m going to channel 22-year-old April and try not to worry. I’m going to have faith that life will fall into place.

Who knows what another ten years will bring, but I’m making a promise to myself: I’m going to enjoy the adventure.

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Stress

17 Jun

There are days that the stress of my job overwhelms me.

Today is one of those days.

I’ve removed myself from the office to sit on some steps outside for ten minutes and calm down. My head is thumping. My heart is pounding. I feel an intense, itchy need to scream.

I can’t help but feel that if I had gone home to someone last night, or woken up with someone this morning, my stress from yesterday wouldn’t have carried over into today.

As it is, there’s no release.

I’ll be a wreck by Friday.

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Where does the good go?

9 Jun

It was a year ago this coming weekend that my ex came back from his first stint working in New York.

It was the second worst weekend of my life. (The worst being the fun-filled weekend of the pizza of doom, which was to follow a few weeks later). I came in to work the following Monday and collapsed on a colleague in tears. It’s all a little bit blurry in my head. I guess I’ve blocked a lot of it out because it’s too painful. Or too embarrassing. But I remember telling my friend, “I don’t think he feels how I feel anymore.” I felt like a different person came back from New York that weekend. And this different person was kind of a dick.

But, my goodness, a year ago this week I was giddy with excitement about him coming home. I remember I was on a film shoot and wouldn’t stop babbling away to the client about everything I had planned. I made him his favourite red velvet cupcakes. I booked a table at our favourite restaurant and cocktail bar. I counted the sleeps. I left work early on the Friday. Stupid girl.

Because there was a different energy in the air that Friday evening. As though he didn’t know what to do with me or say to me. But I put it down to jet lag. Like I say, stupid girl.

But this whole concept of energy is something Irish Two and I were discussing recently. How you can sense tension in the air, how you can feel calm in an environment, how energy can be palpable. I’m no physicist. So it’s actually from a book about ghosts and ghosthunting that I discovered you can’t destroy energy – you can only transfer it. Yeah, I think most people learn this stuff at school.

So if you invest so much energy and so much of your being in loving someone, what happens with all that love? I was a good girlfriend. No, a great girlfriend. But what’s become of all that energy? I guess that’s why we are programmed to try and find someone to fill the void. Because we have all this energy and capacity for love which is suddenly rendered redundant. But it’s such a positive force. Where does it transfer to? And is it ultimately just going to be wasted?

Where does the good go?

 

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Happy Birthday to me

2 Apr

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Hello, 32.

Let’s make this a good one, please.

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When Will I Feel Better?

30 Mar

Amen to this.

Lessons From the End of a Marriage

“When will I feel better?”

This is perhaps the question I hear the most often.

And it is also the most difficult question to answer.

Because there is no single answer.

Healing does not speak calendar.

Feeling better has nothing to do with lunar cycles or landmark anniversaries.

It operates on a different timeline for everybody, depending upon the circumstances, prior experiences, coping skills and support systems. Some may feel better in weeks, while others take years. One person may appear to be healed while holding in the pain while another wears the pain until it wears off. Feeling better is not linear. It is more the slow decrease of bad moments intermixed with the increase of good than a step by step progression.

Feeling better depends upon perspective. You have to remember how bad bad could be to realize that it’s not so bad anymore. Healing…

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Gatwick airport

27 Mar

I’m sitting in a bar at Gatwick airport drinking an Aperol Spritz, waiting for a flight to Glasgow.

In just over five weeks time I will be back here, headed for Florida.

This is great news.

As is my Aperol.

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Je suis en France

20 Mar

Working hard and making time for a casual night out with colleagues. Just every now and again I catch myself mid pitch or making a really valid point, impressing a client or just entertaining my work buddies over an amazing bottle of wine, and I think, “You’re doing OK.”

P.S. This is where we had dinner.

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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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The best of intentions

13 Feb

The week has flown by. Work, work, work, catching up with friends, getting lots of sleep (I seem to need ten hours a night since I was ill). And now the week is about to be punctuated by Friday. Valentine’s Day.

Well, I am spending Valentine’s Day celebrating my most enduring relationship and greatest love of all – Netflix. I will be bingeing on House of Cards Season Two. I’m not even going to feel bad about that. But wait. A twist in the plot. I will not be bingeing alone. Oh no. My new Irish friend is coming over to watch with me. And to eat pizza. There is so much that is unexpected about this situation. Not least the pizza element.

Then, on Saturday evening we’re going out to eat. 

My Mum is part Italian. Which means I am blessed with dark, dark hair and was born with the ability to cook a mean aubergine parmigiana. Irish Two is yet to sample my cooking skills, other than pizza. He called me the other night and asked if I like going to Italian restaurants or prefer to have it homecooked. I told him that I love going to Italian restaurants, “If they’re good.”

Well, Irish Two went ahead and booked the swankiest Italian in London for Saturday night. Theo Randall’s at the Intercontinental on Park Lane. 

If you don’t know London, Park Lane is, like, well posh.

And this restaurant ain’t cheap.

Which leaves me wondering, who is paying for my dinner?

On all of our early dates, Irish Two and I split the bill. As I mentioned before, I am all about paying my own way. But I’d rather take turns. There is something spectacularly unromantic about gazing at each other across the table, touching hands, and then the moment the bill lands you both whip out your Amex and start doing complicated calculations with regards to the tip. Not cool.

Last Saturday we spent a small fortune on Negronis and tapas, and when the bill arrived Irish Two asked me, “Am I supposed to pay?” 

I told him, “No, but it’s nice if you offer to.” 

In the end he insisted in paying. And we had sex afterwards, so I feel like he did OK out of the whole situation.

Well, I checked out this place we’re going this Saturday and my wallet felt a little bruised just looking at the menu. I felt sheer panic. So I emailed Irish Two and said, “Wow, this place you have booked looks really beautiful and delicious, but I’m a bit worried about how expensive it is.”

The correct response to this was, of course, “Don’t worry, it’s my treat.”

Oh no. Not from my Irish Two. He responded with a lengthy description of the episode of House of Cards he had just watched, not mentioning Saturday or the financial side of dinner at all.

Sometimes I think Irish Two just needs a bit of training. He was in a relationship for six years that ended a year ago. He doesn’t really know how to date as a grown up. I’ve already told him off for leaving the toilet seat up, not putting a kiss at the end of his emails, and never telling me that I look nice. He actually thanked me for all these advices.

He’s a curious character. But there’s something refreshing about a man who genuinely has no idea what he’s doing. Although the best of intentions.

Because, to be honest, I have no idea what I’m doing either. Although the best of intentions. 

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Oh helloooooooo again

5 Feb

My dear blogger buddies

I have been rubbish lately. Just rubbish.

But I have not disappeared. I still read your posts. I still want to write. I still have thoughts in my head that need to be, well, not in my head. 

It’s been an intense time of late. January brought me a ridiculous workload and another bout of tonsillitis. I have never been so ill as a grown up. The good news is that I lost my “cheese weight” that was leftover from Christmas. 

I’m having dating dilemmas with a red-haired man from Ireland. More to follow on this.

For now I just wanted to say, “Hello!”. For those who have been in touch and asked, yes yes yes I am still in need of my blog. To my lovely buddies, I promise to write more soon. To a few new followers, gosh you must think I’m boring. I’ll start writing some interesting things for you to read. 

April x

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