Thursday, November 16, 2017
It has only happened to me once: to have fallen in love, and had him fall in love back. At the ripe old age of 26, after a couple of minor heart-breaks and a heck of lot of men wanting me for "only one thing" (too many of whom I indulged), I pounced on love and labelled it "forever", "marriage", "all my dreams to come true".
I planned to be taking a life-long lesson in love - to see how love evolved over the years. Not a new love, then another, then another, as many a hopeless romantic has enjoyed; but to appreciate love as it matured. So I am sad to report that after only one decade together, the love has ended.
There were compromises made. After I promised myself "all or nothing", I was convinced by my love that such a notion was unrealistic; that I couldn't really expect him to love everything about me. I thought I was being a grown-up, learning about "adult relationships"; but it turns out, I was in some ways giving up on my own ideals. The other day I asked my husband if he was a romantic; he answered, simply, "no". I should have asked him ten years ago. I just assumed that he was, that he was capable of - and interested in - life-long worship.
But I suppose ultimately I believed... convinced myself... that this love was the love, because of the dreams. No, I am still not in England (or even moved there, then returned... again) but we do have the babies. I so desperately wanted babies, and was so frightened that it would never happen. I simply couldn't risk missing out on them by testing and questioning my relationship.
Then, of course, my children changed me. They changed my priorities, even my opinions - the very things that husband and I had in common. They banished swathes of the old shyness, and brought forth this capable woman. Capable even of raising these children on my own, if I must.
And I fear I must. No, not really alone, of course - they have a loving father. But I cannot parent with him.
We have exhausted each other with our mis-guided expectations, our mis-matched temperaments, and burnt out the love we once had. And we never did have any spare kindling.
For a love without kindling it lasted a long time, through quite a lot of the shit that is life. And, ultimately, it produced the two most incredible little people on the planet.
Thank you for loving me, David. I am sorry that I cannot love you any longer.
Wednesday, August 16, 2017
Folks, life has taken an unexpected u-turn, and I don't know if, or when, I will be writing here again. But we know I'm a fickle creature... so don't hold me to anything.
In the meantime why not enjoy my back-catalogue? Please comment or send me an email at firstname.lastname@example.org if any of my old posts inspire you. :)
Friday, June 16, 2017
There are plenty of reasons for me not to write; I have a two-year-old and a three-year-old... okay, if that alone doesn't make you gasp you are not paying attention: I deliberately had my children close together so that for half the year I could get awed sympathy at my ridiculously difficult situation. I also work part-time, am lazy, unfit and a problem drinker.
But more often than not the real problem is not that I don't have time to write, or even that I am lacking the energy to write, and certainly not that I don't have anything to write... it is that... I am NOT FUCKING WRITING THAT.
A few years ago I declared that I wanted no further therapy, no more tinkering-with-my-psyche; my neuroses were nicely balanced and they could stay as they were. Since then I have had children, and they have of course played havoc with that precarious balance. Second child, had soon-after-first,
- with all the subsequent hormonal upset and bodily trauma, plus first-child's jealousy and an ill-timed rash of other bad-luck - brought with her dear self a not-dear bout of Post Natal Depression. So that's all been hard work, to say the least.
But what I am occasionally aware of, quite unbidden, is the knowledge that there is more. That there lurk within me older, darker hurts. Being aware of my luck, my privilege in life - not only as a middle-class white person, but specifically as someone who did not suffer childhood abuse (knowing too many people who did) - I don't like to count myself as someone who has suffered trauma. But quite frankly, dear reader, I have.
Sometimes I think we all have. Sometimes I think it is the fate of womankind. And oftentimes I believe that I am just over-thinking things and feeling sorry for myself, like the rest of my self-obsessed generation. But my reality is there are things done to me, against me, that have scarred me... and I just don't want to go there. It's not only that I don't want to share these hurts publicly, it's that I don't want to feel them. I can't afford to: I am trying to enjoy, love, and be there for my children.
I know I can't love them 100% while these hurts are there, but I am also sure that I don't have time to deal with them now. There is just too much. I must bury them and be a half-way decent mother and enjoy their so precious, so fleeting, and so important early years while they briefly exist... and maybe fix these things later. I did try to fix myself before I had children, I really did. I just didn't know all these hurts were there.
For now I am attempting to perform a psychological triage: work out what I can fix now to be a better parent; what can wait; and what can be buried forever. After-all, how far can a person really delve? I could get so lost in the abyss that I could spend my life improving myself, and never really get the chance to live.