This always makes me want to call him, text him, write to him, anything to maintain some contact, but I put him through enough already. Luckily he didn’t get to meet Ted, but there were a few preceding versions of Ted that Jim did get to meet. And time and time again, wonderful, selfless, heroic Jim managed to breathe life back into me when these demons were dragging me under.
It’s
been 18 months since we split up and 8 months since I last saw him. He has a
new girlfriend and is deservingly happy. I can’t intrude on that with my
starry-eyed ideas that just maybe we’re meant to be together. I left him, I
suppose, thinking that life owed me more than the neat little life we’d made
for ourselves in Brighton. There was an element of me starting to believe my
own hype – I was powering along at work, embracing London life, and was under
the spell of all the shiny, sparkly glitz that it offered (infact to be read as
all that superficial bollocks that has no bearing on the grand scheme of things
with less fickle beings than myself being able to recognise as much).
There
was no moonlight flit, there was six or more preceding months to our break up
in which I to’d and fro’d between staying and going and this fact is now my
only assurance – I made a considered decision which I believed was right at the
time. But (and it’s a big, pain-in-my-heart BUT) this last six months have
brought me down a peg or two (I did need it, in fairness) – I’ve (over)analysed
myself, reconsidered what’s important to me and what it really is I’m searching
for on this weird old journey they call life. And what do you know, it’s that
modest, uncomplicated, contented, cushion-y warm life that I crave. I always
knew this I think, but I pushed it to one side in favour of pursuing an
existence that gained me the approval I so needed from others.
Yes,
I was that girl from little ol’ Hayling Island who was doing all these glittery
things. And I thrived on the Oooo’s and Ahhh’s that recounting my stories of
this life achieved.
But
inside I was drowning, the thrashing about to keep my head above water becoming
more and more of a struggle until I came all too close to losing my grip in
December. Then along came my wonderful wonderful Mummy, Daddy, Jack and Lucy
with their lifeboat, dragging me aboard and, as gradually and sensitively as I
could cope with, resuscitating me.
I’m
garbling, aren’t I?
If
I have my optimistic hat on, I can see that the last six months or so have
given me a gift. Admittedly, it’s the sort of gift that you don’t really
want/need/never-in-a-month-of-Sunday’s-would-have-bought-yourself but force out
an over-exaggerated smile upon receiving because you don’t want to upset Nana!
But on reflection, it really has given me something wonderful (alas the same
cannot be said for the ‘fun’ jumper Nana knitted and gifted me, worn once to
appease her before returning to its rightful place in the loft!), it’s made me
take one f*ck off almighty huge step back and take a painstaking look at the
life I’d forged.
I
picked it apart and for a while there, wasn’t sure I would ever be able to
weave it back together. And even if I could, did I want to reconstruct it as it
was? The answer – No. Because, to again quote that wise woman’s words, all I
really found I wanted was a bit of peace. And, more importantly, to find a bit
of peace in me.
Just
the last week or two, I really really can feel it too. I feel lucky in a way for
the journey I’ve been on and am still on. Every single day of it has mattered,
even and perhaps more so the ‘how the shitting hell am I going to get out of
bed today??’ ones, because every single day has been a meaningful step in
getting me to this point where I can finally start to, without constant need to
approval seek or people please, just be me. Probably a kinder, stronger, less
angry me too.
And
really, nothing illustrates this better than my blog. I couldn’t have done this
before. Sure, I had a voice and a pretty loud one at that. But I didn’t feel
worthy of it being published and put out there for all the world to see. The
wannabe writer in me thought about it a hundred times but I never felt I had
anything truly valid to say.
But
it finally struck me this week - my voice is valid, I’m valid, with or without my
words and doings being authenticated by anyone else. Because if no-one reads
this drivel but me, that doesn’t mean it’s any less worthy of being heard.
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