No, being bitchy felt empowering. Being bitchy felt like she was holding a giant shield in front of herself and saying, ‘Just you dare try. Just you dare try to cross this line one more time…’
And she didn’t hear from him again after that. Not one single line. It worked. The threat of blowing the whistle meant that there were no more late-night emails; no more links to songs that were loaded with memories; no more late-night drunken reminiscing.
Granted, if he had emailed her, it would have gone directly into the trash can. She still had the filter on her email so that his emails went directly there. And this time, she wouldn’t go rummaging through the (virtual) bin to find his emails either. Such was the nature of her disgust with him, she had absolutely no interest in anything he had to say to her anymore. Nothing would help. Nothing would change. If he was capable of coming to see her, shagging her, then going back to Denise and choosing Denise over her, then there was absolutely nothing more he could say to her.
The fantasy was over.
The fantasy that he secretly loved her, that, deep down, he was harbouring feelings for her, that one day he’d come back, was gone.
The reality was that he had chosen Denise over her. Even when she had laid herself on a platter, he still went back to Denise.
It was like a final rock bottom; that crushing clarity that not one single ounce of hope remained. It was over. Well and truly and utterly over.
And even if she did somehow come across one of his emails, she didn’t think she’d bother to read it. There was nothing else he could say to her. He had trampled over her enough.
He wasn’t capable of love, Sasha thought. He doesn’t love me. He says he loves me, but his actions don’t reflect it. If you love someone, you don’t want to see them hurting. If you love someone, you don’t walk out of the relationship because of a ‘vibe’. If you love someone, you don’t try to change them continually. If you love someone, you couldn’t bear the thought of walking away from them and straight into the arms of someone else.
She could go on and on. The point is, she had stopped kidding herself. She had stopped secretly believing that one day he would wake up and realise what a horrible mistake he’d made, and come running back to her with open arms. It was never going to happen.
What was going to happen (if she allowed it) was that he was going to keep emailing her when he was drunk or on drugs. He was going to reminisce about her when he was feeling morose and depressed. He was going to wave the carrot of hope in front of her every time he’d had a row with his girlfriend. He was going to land on her doorstep for a shag every time he and his girlfriend were on a break. And Sasha was going to get her hopes up every time. So her heart would never fully heal, and she’d never be able to fall in love with anyone else, because it was continually being broken by Kirk. This would go on for years and years, until Sasha eventually had a nervous breakdown or took drugs to cope, or ended up in a mental hospital.
Dramatic? Possibly. But that was the reality. And by playing the tape forward, Sasha was finally able to break free.
Yes, it was hard. Yes, she felt depressed. Whereas earlier she had held a grain of hope that Kirk would return, now there was none at all. All she had to look forward to was one pitiful date after another with online geeks who had no charisma.
So she had to think. And she had to think fast. How could she cope? She felt hopeless. How was she going to deal with this situation?
The only way she knew how to deal with it was to change her thinking.
I am going to think about every last thing I am grateful for about being single, and not being with Kirk anymore, she told herself, writing a list:
Gratitude:
• No more talk-a-thons
• No-one putting me down
• No-one telling me I need to change
• No list of rules telling me what to do
• No one-month breaks with no contact
• No ultimatums
No spending a fortune trying to impress someone – my money is my own
I have my own place, my own space, and peace
Sasha read the list to herself every morning. And after only a few days, something shifted. After months of pining for Kirk and what she had lost, suddenly her perception shifted. She was happy. Happy to be single. Happy to be free.
Content in her own skin.
PART THREE
The Year of No Rules
Chapter Twenty-Three
“Yes, that’s exactly what you need,” Jason advised as he pointed a finger exuberantly in mid-air. “A blueprint for life.” He placed extra emphasis on the word ‘blueprint’, as though he’d discovered the Holy Grail or solved Einstein’s theory of relativity.
“Blueprint?” Sasha echoed, her face puzzled and defeated. Clearly she wasn’t feeling the same energy or excitement that her friend Jason was experiencing. In fact, her energy had sagged so low that her body had sunk halfway down the sofa, and she had pulled the crocheted blanket on top of her. She was snuggled so deep in the confines of her comfort blanket (literally) that she couldn’t quite grasp the level of zest for life that her friend was trying to transmit to her.
“Yes! Blueprint!” he repeated. “Remember that time you cooked that delicious moussaka for me – you took all the separate ingredients and you magicked them together to create a delicious dish? Well – that’s what you need to do with your life. You need to look at all the areas you want to be happier in, and improve on them. Create more balance.”
Sasha peered at him from underneath her blanket. He did have a point, she had to concede. Her life did drastically need an overhaul. Ever since Kirk dumped her, she had never really picked herself up from the gutter. She had tried, half-heartedly, but always sank back down into a pit of depression. The trouble was, she firmly believed that life would never be the same as it had been with Kirk. She’d never find that same chemistry, that same connection, as she’d had with him.
When Kirk had arrived on the scene, it was as if her world lit up like a Christmas tree. Her life suddenly had meaning, purpose, passion.
She remembered the first time she’d met him. She was at a friend’s party. He’d sat next to her and chatted. His smile, the warmth in his eyes, the way he looked at her as though she was the only woman in the room. She had tingled with excitement. Then the way he had asked for her email address; promising that he’d keep in touch. She remembered her surprise and excitement when he emailed the very next day. There was the flurry of emails between them over the next few weeks; tentative, innocent, tip-toeing around each other, doing a merry dance of flirtation and courtship. He sent her songs; songs which pulled at her heart-strings and opened her heart so wide to him so that even now, if she heard those songs, her heart smashed again into a thousand pieces. How could she ever find chemistry like that again? That was love: pure love. A special connection, between two people, which happens once in a lifetime. There was no way she’d ever be able to re-create that with someone else. No matter how hard she tried. No matter how hard she trawled round the various pubs and clubs, hoping to bump into a Kirk-replacement; hoping to recreate the great memories of the past. There was an insistent yearning, and a heart-breaking obsession.
Then there was the small matter of the fact that he had emailed her all those times in the past, playing with her emotions. The emails had come late at night or in the early hours of the morning. Sasha suspected that drink had been taken, or even drugs; that his defences were down and he was being morose and reflective. Often he had sent her songs; songs that they had listened to together; songs from movies they had watched. Songs that said, ‘I’m thinking of you. I remember you. I still love you. I miss you.’
Her hopes had lifted like a bodybuilder effortlessly pumping weights.
See? I knew it, she had thought. I knew he didn’t want to finish with me. I knew he still loves me. I knew he wants me back, I can tell!
Her hopes had always soared like a bird flying gracefully through
the air. She had replied immediately, embarrassingly grateful for any morsel of contact from him, like a little puppy sitting upright with paws outstretched and tongue drooling.
But the next morning, when the drink had worn off and his hangover had kicked in, his responses had been cold and abrupt. The shutters were down and she was locked out again. Her emotions had veered between hope that he still thought of her, and hurt that he had pushed her away yet again.
Her vain attempts to move on had been thwarted every time. Every time she signed up to a dating service, her enthusiasm never lasted. First there were the messages; painful in their lack of charm.
“Hi. How r u?” The guy would say, his message as generic and unoriginal as all the rest of them.
“I’m good thanks, how’s you?” she’d reply, thinking that if he couldn’t be bothered to make much conversation, why should she.
“I’m gd thx. Wbu?”
‘Wbu’ infuriated her. It meant ‘what about you?’ It was the height of laziness. She considered that if a guy couldn’t be bothered to type out three simple words, there was little hope of him being bothered to take her out to dinner.
On the rare occasions that a guy managed to string a few sentences together and they actually arranged to meet, she’d be so disappointed at the lack of chemistry that it depressed her even further. How on earth, after the excitement and passion with Kirk, could she ever hope to find that same level of connection with anyone else?
The guy would turn up; he would look nothing like his picture. He would be shy and awkward and uncomfortable. And Sasha would spend the whole time trying to make conversation and feeling her heart break even further. The only outcome of the date was that it made her sink into a full-blown pit of depression. She’d put on weight. She’d lost interest in going out. She rarely even bothered with make-up. She could hardly run the length of herself anymore. And well, she had just stopped. Stopped caring. Stopped dreaming. Stopped hoping. She had given up.
So why on earth had she decided to confide in her friend Jason, tonight of all nights? Why now was she lying on her couch, like a client at a therapist’s office, being advised by Jason on how to pick her life up again?
Because she’d had a panic attack, that’s why.
They’d tried to go to a gig. Sasha felt she couldn’t breathe; the amount of people, the loud music, bodies bashing into each other, she couldn’t cope with it. So she left. And asked Jason to take her home. And that’s how he ended up sitting here, listening to her tale of woe, eating pizza with her and now advising her she needed a blueprint for life.
“Give yourself a year,” he said. “A year of forcing yourself to take tiny steps each day. Little steps towards your goal. I promise you, you’ll feel better this time next year – but only if you put the effort in.”
Sasha nodded slowly, the magnitude of his suggestion suddenly starting to resonate in her brain.
“You don’t want to be sitting here in another year’s time, having still not moved on from him, do you?” he chided. “You really don’t want to let three years go by and still not be over him?” Sasha shook her head slowly. No. She really didn’t want that.
“No, you’ve got a point,” she conceded. He nodded his head in satisfaction.
Because that was the other fly in the ointment. The date was 15 December; her birthday. Yes, on her birthday, she was lying on the sofa, eating pizza and feeling truly depressed, after having a panic attack in a club. Thank God for Jason, that was all she could think. If he hadn’t have been there, well, she didn’t know what she would have done.
“So I’d suggest you sit down with a list and make pointers on what areas of your life you’d like to change, and then work out small steps each day,” he went on. “Call it – The Year of No Rules,” he grinned.
“The Year of No Rules.” Sasha smiled at his reference to Kirk’s controlling lists. She considered Jason’s plan, mulling it over in her head. She decided that she should try it. After all, what had she got to lose? She’d either fall into a greater depression, putting on even more weight, or she’d pick herself up and move on with life, hoping that this time next year, she’d be in a much better place. Possibly with a new boyfriend and, hopefully, happy.
“Okay,” she smiled. I’ll do it.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
“Small steps, that’s all we’re trying to achieve here,” the counsellor said, as he peered through his spectacles at her. Sasha really was sitting on a therapist’s couch now. The counsellor’s office was situated in a townhouse. When she rang the bell, a man answered, smiling. He looked surprised. She wondered why. Did she not look like his average depressed patient?
She had made an effort to apply make-up; the first bit of effort she had made in a while. Her hair was carefully coiffed; recently highlighted and accurately straightened. One of the luxuries she’d afforded herself was regular trips to the hairdresser. Her recent state of apathy was such that even the effort of hoisting herself into a bath had started to feel like a mountainous task. How much easier it was to let a hairdresser gently caress her hair over a sink and then effortlessly style it into a sleek bob in under fifteen minutes. Ten pounds later, she felt like a new woman with more of a spring in her step.
“Hi, I’m Sasha,” she smiled. “I’m here for my session?”
His eyebrows shot up in surprise and his lips followed with a smile, then a keen gesture to ‘come in, come in.’
She wondered what his depressed patients usually looked like. Old, perhaps? Overweight? Wearing comfy trackie bottoms, no make-up visible? Dark bags under the eyes, signifying major lack of sleep?
He led her into a room which could easily be mistaken for her granny’s front living room. Comfy sofas, low lights, pictures on the wall, a coffee table displaying a box of tissues. In fact it was a living room really. This was a residential townhouse converted to a therapist’s room, which gave it a lovely cosy feel.
It was only on this, her second session, that he was already suggesting ‘small steps’. Sasha hadn’t expected to hear practical action tips about how to move forward. Sasha expected to talk more about her problems; to regale the counsellor with terrible stories about her time with Kirk; not to mention her horrific childhood and the deep emotional scars she must be hiding. She wanted sympathy, empathy, and long conversations with depth and weight.
“Just small steps,” he repeated. “I mean things like: setting your alarm to get up at a certain time each day, having a shower, taking a short walk.”
Sasha squirmed in her seat. She wondered if she had washed that day? She couldn’t remember. Perhaps she hadn’t. Oh dear.
He handed worksheets to her. Pages of bullet points and diagrams. Pointers like ‘have a wash’, ‘go for a walk’.
Surely it couldn’t be this simplistic? she thought. Surely the doctor hasn’t put me on a six-month waiting list just to be told, ‘have a wash’?
She stared at the worksheets in horror, unable to lift her eyes to meet the therapist’s gaze. Was this for real?
However, something must have stuck, because several days later, she found herself sitting down to write a plan.
• Long-term goals
• Short-term goals
What I could do this week
What small steps I could take today
“It’s like this,” the therapist said. “If you keep doing the same things, aren’t you going to get the same results?”
He had a point. If she spent an entire year comfort eating, going to bed late, waking up late, feeling groggy all day, surfing the sofa, working her way through copious reality shows, wasn’t she likely to get the same results? Weight gain, depression, apathy, pushing people away, loneliness?
If she took small steps every day for a year, wasn’t she likely to reap some results at the end of the year? Weight loss, experiences with friends, dates, a new partner, a published novel? You reap what you sow.
Taking out a piece of paper and a pen, Sasha wrote the following
:
• Long-term goals
- A relationship with a man who loves and accepts me as I am
• Short-term goals
- Sign up to an online dating service
- Sign up to social events
- Set aside time for exercise sessions
• What could I do this week?
- Sign up to an online dating service
- Sign up to a social event
- Set aside Sunday to exercise
• What small steps could I take today?
- Sign up to an online dating service
Sasha set her pen down and looked back at the exercise she had just completed. How was it possible that, after only 20 minutes, when absolutely nothing had changed in her life or her circumstances, she immediately felt better? She felt she had more energy, more zest for life, and above all, more hope. She did not want to retreat to the sofa today. She did not want to pull her comfort blanket over her. She did not want to binge out on chocolate and popcorn and reality TV. She did not want to feed herself medication which would slow her down and zone her out. Nor did she want to guzzle back copious glasses of wine or drag desperately through a packet of fags. She did not want to slump into a depression today. She wanted to take one small step. One small step that would take her closer to her visualisation. If she could get her head on the pillow tonight, putting a tick next to the box for ‘one small step taken’, she knew she was on her way to a better life. It made her feel in control. It gave her power back. Which was a far cry from the last list that Kirk had written and asked her to sign.
She wondered, briefly, if she and Mr Counsellor would hit it off and have a relationship. He was good looking, to be fair. Though verging on the nerdy side of the spectrum, with spectacles, and an over-keen air, he seemed nice; reliable, trustworthy, pleasant. She imagined, for one brief moment, that over the course of their sessions they might fall in love. That their weekly slots of intimate discussions could lead to a feeling that they were closer than they actually were. She’d be baring her soul, opening herself up, becoming vulnerable. He, in turn, was being protective, manly; helping her to cope with her problems. He’d be like a strong shield and she’d be the one who needed to be rescued.
The Year of No Rules Page 11