Funny things, airports.
They make me think. A little too much, maybe. Everyone’s going somewhere. On a journey to another destination. And, yet, Glasgow airport will always remind me of the week after the pizza of doom when (after lying in bed at my parents’ house for hours that turned to days) I had to face up to life and head back to London.
Surrounded by people in transition, that day I felt paralysis.
I couldn’t eat or drink anything. I couldn’t read. I walked around the shops but couldn’t focus long enough to take anything in, let alone make a purchase (god knows what I’d have bought if I had been able to). So I sat perfectly still, crying my eyes out, until my flight was called and – like it or not – I too was on the move. Back to my life in London. Without him. And my first night alone since the break up.
Sitting in the departures lounge nearly eight months later, I wonder how much I have moved out of paralysis since then.
Well, I have to give it to myself, I’ve come a long way. I managed to start my new job and keep going to it until that started to feel less like cruelty and more like routine. I’ve made some new friends. I’ve kissed two boys, and dated four. I’ve had sex with someone else (and it was fantastic). I can be in my own company now, watch TV, read, eat – all those things that become strangely impossible when you’re in distress. Most importantly, I’ve kept trudging through the fogs of sadness and pain to a point where I’m nearly OK.
Nearly, but not quite. Because it only takes one moment letting my mind wander to him for my eyes to swim with tears. It only takes one glance at a happy couple travelling together to knock a little air out of me. It only takes one person with a baby to set my mind racing through the, “OhmygodI’mgoingtobealoneforeverbecausesomething’swrongwithmeandI’llneverhavekids” cycle of craziness.
I guess the point is that I’m still mid-journey. Because however far I’ve come, I still wonder why I wasn’t good enough. Why he didn’t love me. Why he said he did. And I do still love him.
Eight months on.
I guess this is a long-haul journey. And I’m just on a stopover.
Pizza of Doom 
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