by Eleanor Wood
I don’t, obviously. I just make yet another shit joke at my own expense and ask him if he wants another drink.
This is a man who is going through life alone, I realize. He never sits next to me when he can sit on the other side of the room. We stayed the night together in a fancy hotel once. In the morning, he got out of the luxurious hotel bed where there was an adoring and reasonably attractive girl next to him, and positioned himself awkwardly on the window sill, saying he needed air. Even looking at him right now, idly playing a guitar along with the record we are listening to, it is evident he is using it as a barrier between him and me. I am sitting cross-legged on the sofa; he is hunched uncomfortably on the wooden floor and keeps batting away my offers of a seat next to me.
I hear Ann’s voice in my head: ‘Don’t put your eggs in that basket, Ells. You’re an attractive woman. You’re still young. It simply shouldn’t be this hard.’
The Lecturer and I go to bed anyway. Because … of course we do. I may be having revelations and epiphanies all over the place, but I’m still me.
I take off my clothes, down to the fancy underwear I have put on especially, and get into bed. He gets in next to me and I kiss him, knowing even as I do so that I should have made him sleep in the spare room. But I kiss him, knowing this is going to be the last time.
‘If I’d known this was available on the menu, I should have done it sooner,’ he says. ‘I thought you were trying to have boundaries, or whatever it is you’re always talking about … Are you sure you want to do this? Because I’m going away and I can’t … I don’t want to lose you as a friend.’
‘Lecturer, we were never really friends,’ I say.
From my end, at least, it’s true.
I cry when he leaves in the morning because I don’t think I will ever see him again. Then I go about getting over it, for real. I am done.
A couple of weeks later, I surprise myself by bursting into instant, physically painful tears on seeing a text from him that says, ‘And now I’m in Vietnam’. That’s it now, I realize. He is far away from me.
I cry as if my heart is broken, but it is not. Not really. I know what a really broken heart feels like, and this is not that.
But the thing is, I’ll miss him. For over two years we spoke nearly every day. We sneaked off for lunches together that consisted of a bottle of wine and a bowl of chips between us. I wrote him notes and bought him little presents, and he never did the same for me, but doing it still brought me joy. I loved trying to cheer him up. We never did most of the things we planned to do (go to an auction, go on a road trip, go on a boat trip, go to Paris); admittedly they were all pretty much my idea, but I’m reasonably certain we both enjoyed talking about them. He made me laugh and he totally got my sense of humour in a way that very few people do. He gave me advice on my work and it was good, valuable advice. He took me clay pigeon shooting and, because it was with him, I actually unexpectedly had fun. We would have remote film dates, where we’d both press play on a crap horror film at the same time and text each other our critiques throughout.
He made me feel like I was in a cool little gang of two. Drinking pink cocktails and smoking sneaky cigarettes and telling secret stories on a balcony overlooking a pretty corner of London on summer evenings, while we laughed at each other’s jokes and bitched about everyone else – it wasn’t real intimacy, or a real relationship, but it felt great.
It may have been misplaced, but I loved him. I’m not sure he really knew, even though I was always telling him. However, if there is one thing I have learned recently, it’s that I can’t keep flogging a dead horse like this. It’s no way to spend a life, at any age.
I can hear Nan’s voice in my head, obviously. I have always been both utterly baffled and totally admiring of my nan’s ability to compartmentalize. I have always thought perhaps it’s a generational thing; Rose has it as well. People of that age have seen so much shit, I think they’ve had to develop it as a survival tactic. Otherwise they would all have gone around dying of heartbreak all the time. However, those two definitely take it to extreme levels. I will never forget my complete shock as they told me, totally stony-faced both of them, about how they feel nothing for their father. He hadn’t been at all interested in them, and had chosen not to be involved when they were growing up, why would they waste a moment’s thought on him? They had their mum and the most wonderful stepfather, not to mention each other.
Rose walked past him in the street once. When she was an adult, years after she’d last seen him. She was working in the City and he walked past her when she was out on her lunch break. She told me they made eye contact, recognized one another, then both carried on walking.
‘And how did you feel?’ I cried dramatically. I was clutching my heart, my voice ringing with emotion. Admittedly I’d had more than one glass of wine, but even if I hadn’t … Well, this little story makes me feel a lot of feelings.
I have no idea how I would feel now if I walked past Stepdad in the street. I do know, however, that the answer would not be ‘nothing’. I feel physically panicked at the thought.
‘I felt nothing,’ Rose said, as if she were surprised by the question. ‘Nothing. Why should I?’
Nan nodded in agreement. Both staunch and unwavering. They went on to change the subject to Poldark or something, while I remained open-mouthed in amazement and still experiencing a lot of feelings at this revelation.
Nan has often tried to coach me, in recent years, to channel some of this spirit. In the most part, I’m afraid I have failed miserably. I am incapable of switching off my emotions, of compartmentalizing even the tiniest thing. I’m sort of proud of it – in fact, sometimes Nan’s calm logic and ‘forget about it’ attitude frustrate me terribly.
I am the opposite, and I kind of like being neurotic and emotional. I have sleepless nights over missed opportunities and minor arguments I didn’t win. The marvellous French expression l’esprit d’escalier (the wit of the staircase – or thinking up the perfect response long after a conversation) could have been invented for me. I’m constantly reliving situations and thinking about what I could have done differently. How I could have been better.
‘What you have to do,’ Nan instructs me in her calm voice, as if she’s stating an obvious fact rather than the impossible, ‘is think can I change this by worrying about it? If the answer is yes, then great. If the answer is no, then do not waste your time.’
I am in knots. I am worrying about everything. This is fucking ridiculous.
‘How?’ I ask her. ‘How the hell do I do that?’
‘You just get on with it,’ she says. ‘You do other things. It’s hard sometimes. But you do it.’
Usually at this point, I would lose patience and start raising my voice, talking to her like I’m still a stroppy teenager, saying it’s all very well for her, but I can’t do that. I’m an emotional person. I’m a fucking writer, for goodness’ sake. If I can’t feel all my feelings long past the point when it’s healthy or useful, then who even am I?
Instead I decide to listen and do my best to take her advice. If she can do it, why can’t I? She’s been through a lot fucking worse than this. Ironically, it occurs to me that The Lecturer would surely approve of her logic, but obviously I don’t ask him at this point. You can’t really ask for someone’s advice on how to go about getting over them, much as I would actually like to.
That ship, I decide to decide, has sailed.
So, I cry for half an hour on my sofa, and then I delete The Lecturer’s text and go about trying to ‘do other things’. It’s hard. But it sort of works. Not totally, because that’s not possible. But mostly. And that’s not too bad.
Present Day
My nan and I are agreed on one thing: that we both disagree with this modern obsession with ‘getting over it’. Getting over it is not the same as getting on with it. It’s a phrase that is used so often, and that I hate. Why should ‘getting over it’ always be the aim? Why is not being ‘over
it’ something to fear at all costs?
I have been through some things in my life I will never get over. At the very least, I will be different because of them. But it’s more than that. There are some things I will always be sad about. And that’s OK.
My nan is in her late eighties and she has a brilliant life and she, for the most part, regrets nothing, but there are some things she has carried through her life that she will always be sad about. That’s OK. She has lived life bravely and fully. That’s the price you pay.
Yeah, you can get on with it. Nobody’s saying you can’t. In fact, you should get on with it as best as you can. You can be fucking staunch about it, but some things will still always be there, underneath. Always.
That’s all right.
I’m quite happy where I am (full disclosure: I’m drinking a glass of wine and listening to Elliott Smith at my kitchen table as I type). I’m OK. I’m at peace, but I’m not over it and I never want to be.
Unfortunately, I am also of the opinion that you can’t be friends with exes. Not really. In an ideal world I would like to be, and I think all of mine are extraordinary humans (we’re excluding Bad Boyfriend from this particular generalisation), but I’m not sure I can consider any of them real friends.
K and I tried, heroically. We have been through so much together. God, we grew up together, really. We both want the best for each other; we wish each other well.
Sadly, it turned out we cannot be friends. We tried going out for drinks, then when that didn’t go well we tried going out for coffee. That also didn’t go well. We are incapable of seeing each other’s faces and not crying. Last time we met up, we ran into a girl we know, who sweetly and obliviously came rushing up to our table to say hi. Her friendly expression turned to horror when she slowly realized that we were both weeping hysterically. We couldn’t stop, even while we tried awkwardly to explain ourselves. If we’re not both crying, then we argue over whose fault it was and how fucking futile the whole situation became. It’s just not healthy.
So, at least we both know ourselves by this point, even though it’s a shame. Every year, when it’s his birthday, I feel a bit sad. We spent so many of them together. By this point, I actually don’t try to fight myself on this. If for one day of the year in particular I allow myself to feel sad about the demise of an often-beautiful relationship that lasted well over a decade, then so be it.
Sadly, no matter how much we went through together, I can’t say I count him among my friends at this point.
Maybe I’m just not that evolved, but mostly I think it’s because I can’t stand the sadness that such stepping down inevitably means. I look at the beautiful faces of these incredible men and it blows my mind that we could once have been everything to each other and now we’re just … not. They knew me so well. They have seen sides of me that nobody else will. What does that even mean now? Where did all go? Does it still exist, somewhere? My poor brain simply cannot take it.
I’m OK with remembering the good bits, but I just can’t be confronted with the evidence that life has moved on. The smallest details slay me, anew, every time. I only have to see K wearing a coat I don’t recognize and it makes me want to kill myself. He once didn’t own a single piece of clothing that I wasn’t intimately acquainted with. Now we have nothing.
I don’t know if it makes me an idiot, but I feel the same about my stepdad. He’s not my father. We are not blood relatives. If he is not married to my mum then what are we to each other?
He will always be the man who brought me up, who taught me to drive, who helped me with my maths homework. Nothing will change the fact that he was the first person ever to play me a Prince song, and it changed my life. He went to great trouble to get hold of Rumble Fish on VHS so that we could watch it together and it blew my fucking pre-teen mind. I miss getting his advice on things as an adult. I miss him taking the piss out of me and I can hear his chuckle now as I think of it. I miss him.
But the thing is, I know there is no possible alternative.
If we did have a relationship, what could that even look like? What would we do? Go to the pub together for a couple of hours before he has to go home to his house I have never been to, where he lives with his girlfriend I never want to meet? Am I supposed to betray my mum and break her heart in exchange for, what, lunch a couple of times a year and a birthday card if I’m lucky?
Fuck that. Maybe it’s my problem – wanting nothing if I can’t have everything. But for me, personally, there is no alternative.
There are things I will forever be sad about. There are songs I love that I will never be able to listen to again because I can’t bear the memories.
So, yeah – apparently there are some things I will never get over and I am totally at peace with that.
August 2017
My brief relationship with Bad Boyfriend left me with a lot of things, none of them good. Mistrust of other humans. Self-esteem in the bin. Endless self-recrimination. Total lack of faith in my own judgement. However, shortly after that, I finally picked up the phone and rang a therapist who had been recommended to me by a trusted friend. I was trying so hard not to cry, I could barely speak. I knew I should have done this much sooner, but it was my experiences with Bad Boyfriend that finally convinced me to do it.
My therapist’s name is Kathleen. I made an appointment to meet her at her office, and I have sat in that room for an hour a week ever since.
I’ve had therapy a few times before in my life. I’ve never stuck with it for very long. A few times, I’ve been in crisis and seen my GP, but by the time I’ve made it to the top of the waiting list for a proper psychiatric assessment, the moment has passed and I don’t want to waste anyone’s time. It’s the accepted belief in my family that I probably have something ‘wrong’ with me, but I have never been formally diagnosed.
The thing is, it takes very little to make me suicidal, but then it takes very little to make things seem bearable again. It’s such a rapid cycle I can barely keep up, but it means it’s easy(ish) to keep going and just get on with it when the perfect storm has passed.
Also, I’ve never found a therapist I’ve really, properly clicked with before. I’ve been to see a few that are so wishy-washy I find it difficult to respect a word they say, and I want to roll my eyes aggressively every time they utter ‘and how does that make you feel?’.
The last one I saw was a strict, austere middle-aged woman with a pleasingly unplaceable European accent, like some sort of generic Bond villain. She was fond of a smart jacket and silk scarf combination, even though her practice room was in her grand seafront apartment and we had to walk through her kitchen to get to it.
She was of the opinion that psychotherapy was supposed to be hard, and she would bark at me for an hour every week and then give me homework. It was only when I realized I was dreading our appointments all week and usually cried during the walk there that I decided not to go and see her any more. She was quite cross with me when I told her.
The minute I walked into Kathleen’s office, I knew she was my kind of person. I know you shouldn’t judge on first impressions, but I liked everything about her: her face, her voice, her outfit. She looked kind. She wasn’t much older than me, but she sounded like a woman who knew her shit. I trusted her straight away.
She calls me up on my tendency to turn everything into a funny story, but we still have a laugh. By this point, I don’t even feel too awkward crying in front of her. And please do bear in mind, I am a very ugly crier. Seriously, it’s gross. One of my great delights is when I make Kathleen swear, which happens from time to time (‘I’m sorry to say it, but it sounds like he’s being a fucking twat’, for instance. Hi, The Lecturer).
I have told her things that I have never said out loud to a human being before, and I have never regretted it once. When I first went to see her, I was at a low ebb. However, I wasn’t in crisis. I hadn’t been for a while. It was just that things weren’t really getting better – there’s a difference.
For the first time, I was serious about breaking some patterns and genuinely changing my behaviour. I didn’t want to keep going on like this. It was the most committed I had been to my mental health, the first time the idea of ‘self-care’ had ever gone beyond the occasional urgent need to save my own life.
Fortunately, it just so happened that I had come to the right person. Every week I look forward to my hour on a Wednesday afternoon in Kathleen’s office. She doesn’t take notes, or make me take my shoes off and lie on a couch. She doesn’t try to talk to me about ‘mindfulness techniques’, and I love her for it. Thankfully she never gives me homework that consists of listing ’fifty things I like about myself’ or similar. She just lets me talk, and sometimes she chips in and says things I hadn’t thought of, which usually make perfect sense.
She makes me look at things differently and I try my hardest to bring this attitude out of her office and into my real life. I have become more tuned in to how I feel around other people, and as a result I try to be around people who make me feel good. I think about how I communicate with others and the effect I am having on the world around me. In tiny baby steps that may not even be visible to the naked eye, I am getting better at speaking my mind and standing up for myself.
If you asked anyone who knew me a bit, they would say that I was outspoken and fearless. I fart in public and make dick jokes and speak my mind at all times. Except, the people who really know me would add that I use this as a smokescreen to hide the fact that I’m actually terrified of people’s opinions of me. I pretend I don’t care because I care too much. I do it with work, I do it with boys I like. I’m embarrassingly frightened of people not liking me. I am embarrassingly frightened of failing. I’m even more frightened of the slightest conflict.
I talk to Kathleen about this, a lot. We unpick a lot of things and I say things I don’t expect to say. I’ve been feeling things I never even noticed before.