Tag Archives: heartbroken

Two years gone by

31 Aug

Hmmm. Not sure if anyone will read this post. I’m not sure what any of my readers are up to these days. It’s been a very long time. So long, in fact, that WordPress has kind of changed and I’m not entirely sure how to use it anymore.

As if to prove that point, my screen keeps freezing. But I’ll keep writing anyway. Because that’s what we do.

It’s been two years and 28 days since the Pizza of Doom, dear friends. Is it pathetic that I know that? Probably. But bear with me. I promise, I’ve done you proud.

Two years ago right now I was still a mess. The man I thought I was going to marry had broken my heart. I was about to start a terrifying new job. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t sleep. A lot of the time, I was struggling just to breathe. I know that sounds ever so dramatic, but the pain was physical. And deep.

A year ago I wasn’t sure that I would ever get over what had happened. I was frustrated by my inability to move on. I was angry and bored, and I felt that life had let me down terribly.

Well, dear buddies, I stand before you today (or write before you, I suppose) a new and very happy woman.

Have I met someone?

Nope.

I’ve had a few comical dates. I’ve had a bit of a fling with someone. But I feel so detached from the world of relationships that the very concept of having a boyfriend never really crosses my mind.

So here’s what is going on:

  • Work is good. I’ve worked hard, and I’m enjoying it. I’m travelling lots, I’m meeting new people. It’s exciting.
  • I’m exercising. I swim pretty much every morning. I’m doing Kayla Itsines too. OK, I’m only on week 2, but that’s something. I walk about 9 miles a day. And I’m still loving yoga too.
  • I went to Japan on my own for a month. It was incredible. It scared me, and surprised me, and delighted me. It left me unafraid, with an appetite for travel. And sushi.
  • And the biggest news of all – next month I’m moving to New York. I’m transferring with my work and starting over stateside. Am I terrified? Of course I am. But I’ve come to realise that the scariest things usually work out the best in life.

So I wanted to write today, because it is more than two years, just to say that I’m doing fine now. And, if you happen to stumble upon Pizza of Doom because you’re feeling sad and heartbroken and reaching out into cyberspace, then I can promise you that it will get better.

But, remember, nobody else is responsible for your happiness. Just you.

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When you’ve been through the most painful experience of your life

2 Dec

I have been through the most painful experience of my life.

I have felt agitated by pain, unable to sit still or sleep through the night. I’ve had grief under my skin. I’ve found myself crying on buses, in shops, at my desk, and not realised I was even thinking about it. About him.

I’ve struggled to get out of bed, only to struggle to shower, and struggle to dress, and struggle to brush my teeth and look in the mirror and try to convince myself I’m better off alive rather than dead. And then struggle through another day, just so I can lay awake all night regretting myself.

I’ve made mistakes. I’ve learned from them. I’ve made more. I’m still learning.

I no longer feel like I am going through this. It no longer controls me.

If you are heartbroken, or hurt, please believe me it will get better.

I had reached the point when I never thought it would. I spent 16 months in hell.

Now, I believe it’s going to be OK.

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Timing

2 Nov

Oh, hello, November.

How the hell did that happen? The year is nearly over, which of course means my brain starts doing gymnastics – going back over 2014. And it all comes down to this: I thought I’d feel better by now.

Last year I went on holiday in November. It had been a bit of a focus to just keep going, just keep breathing, just keeping working, just keep above water, for three months after the Pizza of Doom, safe in the knowledge that I could collapse on a beach for two weeks. And I was shocked to find myself on that beautiful beach, tears streaming, feeling totally depressed and still hurting like f*** over the man who broke my heart.

A year on, I’m about to go on holiday again, and – again – I’m shocked that I still feel heartbroken. Of course, I’m a lot better than I was last year. And, honestly, looking back over my year it hasn’t been so bad. I’ve achieved quite a lot. I’ve changed. I’ve refocused. But it still hurts. A lot.

It’s been fifteen months since that fateful evening when the man I thought I was going to marry ate half a pizza and then told me he’d never been in love with me. Why don’t I feel better?

I think a lot of it stems from the fact I haven’t met anyone else. At this stage, I figure the chances of me meeting someone and having kids are slim, very slim. That’s a tough pill to swallow on its own. But, then, if I’d met someone before now, I don’t think I would have been ready. I’m a very different person now.

It’s like this. Imagine you’ve made a cake. A beautiful cake. Delicious sponge. Sweet, swirly icing. It looks stunning. And then the man you think you’re going to marry comes along and smashes the cake up. There’s crumbs everywhere. It’s a sugar massacre.

And you still want cake.

So do you mash something together from what’s left? Or do you take some time to throw away the remains, wipe down all your worksurfaces, go and buy new ingredients, and start from scratch?

I want to start from scratch.

Maybe that takes 15 months, or more.

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Sleep anxiety

26 Aug

Sleep has not been my friend since the break up. I lie awake, tossing and turning, going over and over and over things in my head. Or I’m so tired I fall asleep, then wake at four and start my anxiety session then. 

Last night, however, was the worst. I got to sleep, but I dreamt that he was asking me to take him back and telling me how much he loved me, and how much his family and friends loved me too. 

Then I woke up.

Perhaps it’s easier being an insomniac.

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The story so far (and why pizza is painful right now)

21 Aug

In October last year I started emailing a guy on a well-known dating site. Actually, let’s be clear, he started emailing me. (These details really matter to me right now.) We felt a connection straight away. As fate would have it, we couldn’t meet up for a month, but we stayed in touch and really got to know each other over email. So, by the time we finally met, we both already had pretty strong feelings. Five dates later he invited himself over to my flat since it’s in the catchment area for what is probably the best pizza takeaway in London. We ate pizza, we watched DVDs, we snogged like teenagers, and he asked me to be his girlfriend.

We were disgustingly happy. And I never even questioned that we were going to end up together. After all, a couple of months in he was the one talking about marriage and babies and moving in together. He told me he loved me. He pushed for us to meet each other’s families. He told me how much happier he was when he was with me. Now, you don’t know me yet, but trust me, I am not the kind of girl who starts planning her wedding after her first date. I’m too old and wise for that. 31 to be precise. But, for him, I let my guard down.

The months went on and we got into a lovely routine. We met the parents. We planned to take a month off next year to travel around Japan. And the whole time he warned me about how stressful his summer was going to be due to his job. But after the summer we would move in together. In fact, we did live together for a month. He moved into my flat while his house was being renovated. And we got on great.

I couldn’t believe my luck. But in a way I felt like I deserved this. I mean, I’ve had more than my fair share of disastrous relationships and humiliating dates. When I was 23 I went on a date with an investment banker who left me after one drink because he had, “a piece of chicken in the fridge that needs used tonight.” Harsh, right? So – thank goodness – everything was finally working out for me.

He went on holiday for two weeks. He was in touch every day. He told me he loved me even more when he was away.

Then his crazy summer of work kicked off. And he went to New York.

He was to be there for two weeks, then back in London for a week, then back in New York for six weeks. Did I think that this sucked? Of course I did. Did I complain? No. I was the supportive, cheerful girlfriend who he needed during this stressful time.

He came home after the first two weeks and something wasn’t right. I told him I felt insecure. I told him things felt odd. He said I was paranoid and had bad PMS.

When he went back to New York I felt awful. I was anxious, I was insecure, but he kept telling me he was just stressed with work. And I kept telling myself it was only six weeks. In fact, we saw each other at a wedding in Ireland two weeks later and everything seemed fine. Then I went out to visit in New York for a week and I thought everything seemed pretty much back to normal.

I should have trusted my guts.

The day he got back from New York I was super excited. I cleaned my flat, I got in booze to make his favourite cocktails, I texted him and said I would order “our pizza” for dinner.

He came over, hugged me, spent a good hour and a half on my sofa stroking me and cuddling me and eating pizza. Then he said he felt sick because he had, “something to tell me.” Turns out it was a little more than “something”. He had spent the past two months thinking about whether he wanted to be with me and had decided that he did not. He acknowledged that he had always been the one to talk about moving in together, but said he had actually never felt that way about me. He told me he was so much happier when he was with me, but “something’s missing”.

Honestly, I was in shock. There’s so many things I wish I had asked or thought to say. I ended up just asking him to leave so that I could call my friend. And before I even really knew what had happened he was gone, I was on my own again, and that f***ing pizza of doom was sat on my kitchen table – mocking me for my stupidity.

I’ve spent the past two and a half weeks going between my parents’ home in Scotland and my flat in London. I’ve spent a fortune on flights, massages and vodka. I’ve never felt like this in my life. And I thank god every day for my lovely friends who are on-hand to offer advice, encouragement, alcohol, halloumi, and powerful words of wisdom like these, “You will eat pizza again, Apes.”

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