Tag Archives: pizza

Once year since the break up (and happy birthday, Liz)

3 Aug

Today is the doomaversary. It was the night of the 3rd of August last year that everything fell apart.

I’ve been thinking long and hard about what to do to mark today. In truth, I know it’s just another day. It isn’t going to tangibly change things. But, for me, it’s very meaningful. It feels like crossing the finish line. I officially got through the worst year of my life. And I’m coming out smiling. Yay me.

I asked you all a few weeks ago what I should do to mark the occasion. Obviously pizza had to be involved, and tonight some friends are coming over to eat pizza with me. Homemade pizza, because it’s better than the takeaway stuff he was obsessed with anyway. But what else what else?

One of my dearest blogger buddies recommended that I think of today as her birthday rather than the doomaversary. So, happy birthday, Liz. I hope you enjoy the title of this post. You, my friend, are a perfect example of one of the loveliest things to have come out of this whole mess of a year: new friends.

Another terribly clever blogger buddy (who I can always rely on to call my ex the ass that he is), suggested that I write him a letter telling him how far I’ve come, and post it on here.

I straight up loved this idea. But when I sat down to write it, hmmmmm, I found I had nothing to say to him. Nothing at all.

And, you know what? I love that feeling.

So, let’s focus on something and someone more important: let’s focus on me.

I cried a little this morning. Not because I missed him, but because I remembered how horrifically sad I felt last year. I went over the evening of August 3rd 2013 in my head and it made me want to go back in time and give myself a big hug and lots of reassurance. So that’s what I’m going to do.

Instead of a letter to him, this is a letter to the April of August 3rd last year.

 

Dear April on the 3rd of August, 2013, just after 9.30pm

Sit on the floor. Put your head between your legs. Try to stop the room spinning. It will stop eventually, and you will get your breath back. I know it’s scary, but this is your body dealing with trauma in its own way. And you’re supposed to feel this way: the man you thought you were going to marry just broke your heart.

You’ve never felt like this before. You can’t make sense of it. And for the next two days you aren’t going to sleep at all as you go over and over and over and over what’s just happened. You’re going to tell yourself that it will never feel as bad as it does in this moment. Unfortunately, that’s not quite true. Right now you’re in shock. When that wears off, the confusion will kick in, then the sadness. I hate to tell you, but you’re going to feel sad for a very long time. You’re not going to sleep properly for a very long time. Go to the doctor. He can help.

At your worst, you’ll wish not to wake up in the morning. You’ll stand on train platforms wondering what would happen if you just stepped forward. Months from now you’ll come to a plateau where these thoughts stop, but you have no idea why you’re alive, or why you would want to be. Because life has no meaning when you’re alone. And if he didn’t want you, well, doesn’t that mean you’re worthless?

You’re not worthless. You help people. You care for people. You make people smile, and there are people who love you. He says that he never did. But your parents do. And your best friends do. And that doesn’t make you pathetic. Because the people who know you best see the good in you. He was blind. And a c***.

Five weeks from now you’re going to start your new job. Two days before, he’ll call you. Because it would be beyond him to realise what bad timing this is. It’s going to be tough. Prepare to hate this job for the first few months. Your confidence just hit rock bottom. How are you supposed to concentrate? But be kind to yourself. Because a year from now you’ll look back and feel proud of how you stuck this job out. In fact, it’s going to rank right up there with your greatest achievements, just the fact that you got out of bed every day and made it to the office. You’ll have been to Boston, New York and Paris with work. And you’ll be planning a trip to Belgium. You’ll have made new friends. It’s a challenge, but if anyone can deal with that, you can.

Christmas will suck. Just saying.

Do what you know how to do. Find your therapy in your writing. Start a blog. You’ll find friends in the strangest of places. You’ll build your support network. And when it comes to support, the bigger the better. You can try new things too. You don’t know it yet, but you really love yoga.

You’re not going to fall in love again in a hurry. For a long time the very thought of someone else is going to make you feel physically sick. But there will be other guys. To date. To kiss. Someone will come along and have the best sex of your life with you. He’s not boyfriend material, but he’s going to turn out to be a good friend. Trust him. He’s odd, but he means well.

If there’s one thing I want you to know right now, it’s that it will be OK. But not for a long time. So don’t panic if you’re still crying months for now. You were madly in love. Take comfort from the fact that your feelings were real. You know what love is. And you need to grieve to move on.

Next spring the darkness will lift. In the sun of next summer, you’ll plan a new future. You’ll get involved in new activities and realise all the new people who have come into your life.

I can’t tell you if this will ever stop hurting. I can’t tell you what’s going to happen to you. I can tell you that opportunities will come your way. And that maybe not knowing what the future holds is more exciting than a future with a man who never loved you, anyway. I can tell you that you’re too good for that.

And, I promise, you will eat pizza again.

Lots of love,

April on the 3rd of August 2014, just after 3.30pm

 

 

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New York

16 Apr

Manhattan Office Vacancy Rate Drops In Second Quarter

Well.

I haven’t blogged because I’ve been working my paws off.

But.

I also haven’t dissolved.

I’ve been in New York for five days. While I’ve hardly had time to eat or sleep let alone spend quality time in Sephora, I’ve also not had time to think too much about the ex. Or his summer here. When he decided that he’d never been in love with me. Sh**head.

As it happens, my walk from the hotel to my office goes right by a restaurant where we ate in the summer, on a hot July night when he seemed determined to pick arguments with me and act like an asshole. The ribs were delicious, mind you. Whenever I pass this restaurant, I do feel a little stab. But it’s a little stab of anger. Not sadness.

I think I find self esteem in my job. I find my inner Beyoncé. Although I’m writing copy and lecturing people on branding, not hitting the stage in tight-fitting lycra, it is kind of the same. Really. It’s my game face. It’s when I muster up every ounce of confidence and go go go. And there ain’t no space for feeling sh** about myself. There ain’t no space for a man who eats half a pizza before breaking my heart.

So there’s four hours til I head to the airport. Just time for a quick run to Victoria’s Secret and Sephora, and another iced coffee.

Maybe even time for a slice of pizza.

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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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It’s not just kissing that’s back on the menu

15 Dec

Right then, the X Factor final is on. It’s well and truly Christmas.

I know I owe you all an update on Friday night’s date. But I feel a little awkward about it. I really like this guy. It feels like a bit of a betrayal to write about our time together.

So here’s what you really need to know:

We kissed. It was great.

I didn’t get home til after 3am.

Cocktails. Cocktails.

No awkward silences.

And we ate.

Pizza.

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Three months since the break up

3 Nov

Three months, my friends. It is totes offish three months since the pizza of doom. Whenever I think of that night, it gets hard to breathe.  I feel so embarrassed for myself. So humiliated. So desperately sad for the girl cleaning her flat, shaving her legs, and getting cocktails ready for her boyfriend coming back from working abroad.

I’m also pissed off that I paid for the pizza.

My friend Kate came and stayed with me that night. I didn’t sleep at all. I stayed up emailing people to tell them what had happened. Goodness knows why, but it made me feel better somehow. I was desperate for anyone to respond. Then I counted down the hours until it was acceptable to phone my parents (luckily they wake up around 6am so I didn’t have to wait too long).

I was crying so hard on the phone I could hardly get my words out. And then I felt guilty about worrying them. And worse for feeling guilty. I booked a flight to Scotland. I walked around the park with Kate, then got a taxi to the airport. The whole day is a blur, but I remember the taxi driver singing along to reggae music.  And I remember downing two vodkas on the plane.

Everything tells me that this was probably the worst day of my life. But, honestly, I can’t remember that much of it.

I would never have expected to still feel this bad three months later. Yesterday my entire day revolved around getting my nails done. I cried all morning and all evening, and went to bed rereading ‘It’s Called A Breakup Because It’s Broken’ for the seventh time.

I was starting to worry about all this crying. It’s like being trapped. Forced to replay the same memories over and over and over and over. And I don’t know how I’m ever going to get over him or when I’m going to get a break from all these memories.

So I turned to Google for answers, and stumbled upon a forum of people discussing the ‘3 – 4 month post breakup’ stage. What I’m going through is not unusual at all.

Once the shock wears off, you have to face the reality that this is what life has in store for you. Every day the hope you had left that things will work out diminishes. And, however amazing your friends are, as time goes on you are less entitled to be injured.

Life goes on. Whether I’m ready or not.

I’m also realizing that I’ll never be exactly the same person again. Which is annoying because, before I met him, I was a really happy, independent, ambitious girl. I’ve started to question things. Not just whether I’m smart enough or pretty enough or at all lovable, but also the things that I believe in.

I’m not sure anymore whether I believe in marriage or lifetime love. I’m not sure I want to get married and have kids, even though it’s everything I’ve ever wanted. I can’t eat pizza anymore. Or listen to The Civil Wars. And New York is forever ruined for me.

They say a break up causes you to grieve. Genuinely grieve.

I think grief travels a wiggly line. It sets off in one direction, and twists and turns and goes back on itself. Kind of like a scribble, really. And eventually, yes – eventually – it ends up near the point of departure. ‘Near’ because you’ll never be exactly the same again.

But I’m going to get as close as I can. I don’t care how long it takes.

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Thank you 101 times over

28 Oct

Dear blogger buddies

This morning I woke up to find my silly blog has 101 followers. Not even just 100, but 101.

My little broken heart felt all warm and fuzzy inside.

The past twelve weeks have genuinely been the worst experience of my life. I know that probably makes me sound like a spoilt brat who hasn’t had anything bad happen in life. And, you know what? That might be true. But it doesn’t change the fact: this is the worst thing that has ever happened to me.

Eleven weeks ago, I turned to Google and stumbled upon some breakup blogs. Thank goodness I did. After reading as much as I could take in, I created Pizza of Doom so that I could get the awful things in my head out of my head.

What I did not expect was to ‘meet’ all of you lovely, lovely people. From my little bubble in London I’ve been able to share in your stories and share mine with you, whether you’re in Iowa, Boston, Maine, Toronto, India, Panama, New Zealand, well, wherever you are.

Rewind eleven weeks and I didn’t think I could get through August. Well, low and behold, it’s nearly Halloween. Honestly, there are days I couldn’t have got out of bed without your words of wisdom and support. Sometimes the only thing of any comfort has been knowing that you understand.

To know I have 101 followers (three of whom are friends in the real world – thank you, Jennie, Kate and Rosie). Well, it makes me feel connected. It makes me feel good.

I’m still sad every day, and I’m afraid I’m going to keep writing and moaning about this for a very long time.

But one day I hope to tell you that I feel amazing.

One day I hope to tell you I’m over him.

One day I hope to tell you I’ve eaten pizza again.

Lots of love, buddies. You keep me sane.

April x

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Will contact really resolve anything?

24 Oct

I’m kind of at an unpleasant crossroads.

I saw my counsellor last night, which gave my brain a much-needed massage. My counsellor believes that I need to resolve things with my ex in some way. She thinks he needs to know the impact that all of this has had on me, and that I need for him to know that too. Oh, it’s so complicated, isn’t it?

I was caught completely off-guard when we broke up. One day he was using phrases like, “If we had a daughter..”, and “If we were married…”, and a few days later he arrived home from New York, came over to my flat, ate half a pizza (I still struggle to understand how he digested this under the circumstances), and broke my heart into a zillion pieces. At the time I was in shock. When we spoke five weeks later, honestly, I was still in shock. Months later, there are things still going round and round and round in my head that I wish I had said. It’s hard to be articulate when you’re struggling to breathe.

From the start I’ve told my counsellor I’m not sure that I can put myself through any communication with him. I don’t want it to feel raw again. And if I was to actually see him, well, it would be devastating. I’m still completely in love with him. I would definitely be holding out some kind of desperado hope that he would see me and realise he wanted me back. In the words of the oh-so-clever Taylor Swift, “I can’t say hello again and risk another goodbye.”

I told her (my counsellor, not Taylor Swift) that seeing him would destroy me. I’d break down, and then I’d look pathetic and be unable to express myself anyway.

And she smiled, and said, “Yes, this time you need to be in control. This time, you need to eat the pizza first.”

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It’s Tuesday night

17 Sep

Tuesday night was Pizza Night.

Tuesday night we usually got out of work at a decent time. Both of us. Incredibly.

Tuesday night he came to mine (most of the time we hung out at his since it’s about three times the size of mine).

Tuesday night I ordered pizza. Chorizo and sweet peppers for him. With extra basil and chilli flakes. Pepperoni and broccoli for me.

Tuesday night I always had the fridge stocked with his favourite beer.

Tuesday night I’d get out the “fun napkins” (with pictures of dancing lobsters on them).

Tuesday night we’d eat too much, then lie on the sofa kissing and holding each other.

Tuesday night he’d stroke my feet while we watched DVDs.

Tuesday night we’d go to bed early and spoon.

Tuesday night we’d have sex (before he decided on “no sex on school nights”). My god. It was good.

Tuesday night we’d whisper sweet nothings and even sweeter somethings, and fall asleep with our feet touching.

Tuesday night is now Boxing Night.

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