Why I Haven’t Posted in a While / Love doesn’t cure everything….

Love doesn’t cure depression.

I’ve tried the application of Love as a band aid, as a plaster, a quick solution to paper over the cracks. It’s in the busy-ness of a weekend I have organised to silence the bells inside my own head and heart, under the pretence of a birthday, a reunion, a wedding, an anything at all. I came away from these with the knowledge not that I was loved, but that its exhausting to be happy and smile at people when inside you are screaming and breaking and struggling to breath. That when you look for love, you trust the wrong friends, friends who you have known you for years and seen you at your worst and best. They will be the ones who don’t tell you they have girlfriends, lovers, lives, that hand you their guilt and ask you to carry it for them, who don’t listen to what you are really asking them for. A sigh, a kiss, is really a scream, a notification that ‘I need help’, that a one night stand or a fling is not asking for a relationship but a pillar to hold onto in the middle of the night.

People don’t listen, people don’t see.

Nights are darker when you have your own personal rain-clouds. The stars don’t even light. And when a solid day has passed and all the people you hope to hear from don’t even text a funny joke, you cry and you cry and you cry, and you become thankful that the stars aren’t here to bear witness. Because they hold nights like this forever within them, and you will never see starlight in the same way, never see a field washed in silver without feeling metal between your fingers. Tasting medicine in the back of your throat. Remembering lessons hard learned – how to do it better, that if you swallow too much too quickly you will vomit it all out and sob, sob, sob, realising you failed even at this.

Depression is when the easiest way to stop the cycle is to fall asleep and disappear. To buy a ticket on a train that races behind the dawn, and ask for it to stop only when it reaches a city where the lights never come on. When you check the weather and think you could go outside and fall asleep and you wouldn’t even realise you never woke up. How easy it would be, how calm, how quiet. When you have to scrabble in the dirt for reasons not too, and it can be something simple that stops that forward rush. I cannot choose the right scarf, the right shoes, which beach to lie upon. And here I am again, sat behind my closed door and crying. I should be thankful. I never am.

Love is not a reason not to give into the pull in my stomach that urges me on to the cliff-top. Love is what put me here. The wrong man, wrong job, wrong city, wrong medicine, wrong medication, wrong genetic make-up, wrong hormone levels. Love only works when it is a two way thing. I have loved, so many people, so many things that never felt the same, never warmed to my particular traits. I have loved friends who walked away one day with no explanation. Friends who never rang me first. Friends who only ever came to me when I could offer them something they needed. Friends who weren’t friends. Family who never wanted me and didn’t try to hide it. Walking into a house and having nowhere to sleep at Christmas, being the one forever being made to sleep in a temporary bed in a temporary space – neon signs that said I didn’t belong here.

I sit here now and I know later, in a day, a week, an hour, I will try again to make this all stop in a most permanent fashion. God I hope it works.

I know no-one I know realises this blog exists, and so this is safe to post. If it is a goodbye or a cry for help, I don’t really know. It is something of the two.

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Tumble and Fall

I have returned from a date tonight, and it did not go as planned. I know, millions of people have said these words millions of times,….nothing special, really, at all. Honestly, I expected it to go better. After three weeks of talking everyday, and having a million things in common, making each other laugh and being the first to email on NYE, you’d think that’s a basis for a good shot right? I half expected to lay eyes on him and hear that little voice in my head sigh  ‘Oh, its you. I wondered where you were for the longest time….’. Boom, head-shot, wedding flowers, house with a porch, babies and a pet hamster.

Turns out the universe doesn’t care what that little voice thinks or wants to say. Seriously, it gives precisely two thirds of a fuck. I say two thirds because I got a few butterflies when I saw him, and when we hugged goodbye. Lovely smile, nice eyes, geek, yes universe, at last you got it! The orders right, tell the kitchen to close up…oh no wait. ‘Lovely person, but honestly I don’t think I felt that romantic spark,,,’. Hold up there, bring me the profiteroles.

The thing is, after a shitty end to my last relationship, again, perhaps half hearted isn’t what I need. I’ve had half hearted, been the one who burns myself up to make it work, been on the end of the phone waiting for them to pick up as it rings, and rings, and rings, and rings. I don’t need to find out he replaced me again because there was someone better. For the love of god, I don’t want any more idle chatter. Please don’t text me with how the weather is, or how shit work was today, open with the time you spent at your Grandmothers church as a frustrated child. Don’t care that you want to buy new shoes, tell me how you got that scar, on your left knee, that puckers when you bend it like a small kiss. Tell me about the hours spent at your Mothers side when she was ill, how your heart broke when your Father cried. I don’t care about funny cats, or server rooms, or your ex you just walked past. Gift wrap me the smell of blackberries in summer and the first time you lost a tooth, halycon summer holidays spent pressed next to your brother in a caravan playing Monopoly while rain beat against the windows of your tiny world.

I want someone, who wants me to know them, who wants to know me. Who could slide like velvet underneath my skin and know my very words before I say them, that wants to hold my memories next to theirs. I don’t think I’ve ever had that perfect fit, not really, just imperfect edges. Edges cut when you hold them too tight.

One day, I will look back and see this as a winding road and understand why it all went this way, and as the old saying goes, life is understood backwards. Onwards into 2015.

Post Break up Blues

When you break up with someone, and finally accept you are no longer an item, together, coupled – when that moment of dreaded realisation hits, how exactly does one go about quantifying whether or not the relation ship was a good one? What parameters, what possible scale could possibly do justice to the feelings and moments you want to preserve and evaluate? Perhaps some of us judge the quality by how many souvenirs are left to place in a shoebox stained with tears – dried flowers, a resteraunt menu, a tester strip of his signature scent. Others may feel that if anything is kept it means it is not over, that to keep these scraps of a life in a box only means you are waiting to revisit them, to draw out the pain. However, what if you have nothing to keep? No scraps of paper or ephemeral tat to immortalise this partition, this severance?

So many people, male and female, these days seem to judge a relationship purely on its length.Were they there for a few weeks? Not that important then. A few months? Semi- realistic, almost meant something. A year? That’s a real relationship. However what if the flame that burnt brighter for a shorter time meant more than a protracted slow yet comfortable relationship? I am thinking this, as you have probably imagined, as I have just had the ‘good friends’ chat with a boyfriend of three months. Not partner, he never reached those dizzying plains of togetherness. But boyfriend, yes that covers it. I am not going to name him, he is a private person who prefers the non digitization of his life – so I can only hope he forgives me for using him as the catalyst to this ponderence.

I have known him in total for six months, roughly, been together for half of that. So a three-month relationship – met online, met in person, and yes I tumbled him into bed on the first night – don’t judge me, he was (and still is) a handsome, sweet and amazing man. At first I thought he was perfect (in a quiet whisper in the dead of night I may still admit it) , we shared the same tastes in food, movies, music, people and drinking. And it was all happy. All good. He told me he loved me – I didn’t respond in kind (I wish I had, it may have meant things turned out differently). And then in the space of a weekend it changed, he wanted just friends, we fought I acted like an idiot, secrets were revealed and accusations flung – and it was all over. We are however, good friends, who have seen each other naked.

So how do I class this three-month relationship? Some of my friends call it a fling. Some call it a relationship. Some say bad. Others good. I have come to the way of thinking however it is not the quantity but the quality that I judge this on. And it was great. We laughed, a lot, about everything – even the awkward things. Spent fantastic nights getting drunk in pricey cocktail bars we could not afford. He introduced me to new and exciting music and films – and some disturbing new photographers. He made me drink wheat beers and port with my Stilton. I had never before tried port. Bless him he tried, but I just didn’t like it.I may not have much to put away in that box, but what I do have means a lot.  A Molten Brown handwash, a toothbrush, a cinema ticket stub, a CD. They do perhaps mean more than that which I gleaned from a four-year extravagance of a relationship. In the fullness of time we may lose contact, he may meet someone who is uncomfortable with me, I may move abroad, life happens. I hope not though – I feel he has more to offer, to teach me that I havent yet touched upon and so for now, selfishly perhaps, I want him to stay a part of my life even if not as involved.

This has given me pause in the way I approach relationships however. They are all worth something – just because they do not end in the way you wish them too does not make them any less amazing. Some people enter your life in one role, but are destined to continue in another. Friends become lovers, lovers become the best of friends, enemies become partners, teachers become colleagues. Who knows, he may yet have a very important role to play. It just isn’t the one I originally had mapped for him.