When you go through something that tears you apart, you need other people to help put you back together. When you fall, you need other people to help pick you up. When you’re drowning, you need other people to grab you by the paw and pull you upwards.
I think in the (nearly) eleven long months since the pizza of doom, I have probably driven my friends a little bit crazy at times. I’ve definitely leant on them. I’ve learned who the real ones are, and I appreciate them more than ever.
Of course it feels good when you don’t see the point to anything and you can’t see the goodness in your life or your heart, but someone reassures you that it’s still there. It’s comforting to know that people love you and want you in their lives, even if your ex doesn’t. You need those people to help build your confidence back up.
But once your confidence is built back up, you teeter on the edge of recovery. It’s a ledge. It’s narrow, and feels uneasy and a little bit scary all at once. When you reach that ledge you have to make a decision: you have to decide whether you want to be happy. And, if you do, that means you’ve got to move on. You’ve got to jump.
It’s no longer up to your friends and family to tell you how great you are, you need to feel it for yourself. You need to stand up for yourself and realise that you’re good enough and that – yes – someone treated you badly, but f*** them. F*** everyone who patronises you or tells you what to do – especially those who have never even been in a similar situation. Because your real friends still see you for the person you are deep down inside. They’ll still be there to support. Should you stumble, they’ll help you up. More than anything, they want you to take that leap too.
I’ve had an interesting couple of weeks. I think I’ve spent the past two weeks on that ledge. And, as luck would have it, a few events came into my life that helped me make my decision. Last Friday a friend who was much less sober than I was started to tell me how I should turn my life around. She told me I should quit my job, work less hours, go travelling, rent out my flat. She told me this with force. In front of people. On a drunken Friday night (when I happened to be sober).
At the time, it knocked a little air out of me. I know this friend cares about me a lot. Goodness, if she thinks my life is rubbish then it must be. But then wait – no. No. No. And no again. My life is not rubbish. I have an amazing job. I’ve worked incredibly hard to get to where I am and I’ve done it at a younger age than most people in my industry. I own my flat (which I love) in one of the greatest cities in the world. I feel so at home in my crazy little neighbourhood of hipsters, Turkish, Caribbean, and proper East End people. I am proud of this silly blog. And I’m out all the time with friends. I have a good life. Yes, I’d like someone to share it with. I think it’s a shame that I don’t get to share it with anyone, but the reason I think that way is because I know that I am one of the most caring, kind cats around. (Not to mention smart and funny with great hair and amazing taste in clothes.) So, no, I have no interest in quitting the job I’ve worked for ten years to get. And I don’t need to turn my life around. I don’t need to run away: I just need to get on with it and hope that someone sees how good my life is and wants to be part of it.
I stood up for myself and my happiness for the first time in a long time. I felt defiant, and I liked that feeling.
Which is when it hit me like a meteor or something equally powerful and beautiful.
I can jump off this ledge. I can grasp for the future. And nobody else can do it for me.
I know there are people who’ve got my back. Some of them even here on WordPress, you lovely blogger cats. Some who’ve known me for years and knew who I was before this all happened. Some who only know me since the pizza of doom, but who are able to see the person I am underneath, which makes me feel worthwhile and valued. You know who you are. You know what it means to me.
I have all the support I need. Which means I can do this. By myself. For myself.
Pizza of Doom 
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