Well I’m alive.
That much is obvious. And heaps more alive than I was. Not just more alive than the bit when I was totally devastated (I was actually definitely alive then, like every single nerve ending on fire alive in a BAD way. But I definitely knew that I hadn’t died). No, I’m more alive in the everyday.
Yesterday when I was drinking beer (I know, I’m sooooo sorry about the alcohol thing, IT IS NOT what will bring you alive, but if you are not drinking for the wrong reasons (like being too scared to drink in case you actually voice your needs or tell someone who’s being drunk and nasty to back the fuck off or in case you have too much fun and someone gets insecure) then you might limit your fun quota. I was definitely limiting my fun quota for a while there) with my ladies on the footy grand final day and NOT watching footy, and instead doing instant room –restyling, feeding kids sausage rolls for every meal and generally having
FUN in my everyday life (as compared to kid-free holidays for leisure overseas) I got that whole sensation of being properly alive.
And not in a surviving way. Those of you who are going through this heartbreak thingy, or have done it recently will know what I mean when I talk about the surviving thing. You know your heart is beating, and you are eating and getting things done that mean you and those you must care for (like your children) are getting their basic needs met, and you can function at work (even quite well) and the bills are getting paid and the dog’s water bucket is full but when the day is done, there’s some kind of relief at having made it through.
Well it’s not like that. It’s like waking up and being alive. In your body. When I’m alive I want to write because there’s so much to say. I want to cook because I like it (although ATM I am totally being trumped by our new au pair, so I’m just letting her do that, but let it be known I like to cook and I’m quite good at it). I want to take my kids to the markets because it’s fun and there are people there and it’s never just about the lemons I need or the chai tea. I want to light candles and potter around in my house because I love it when my space has some kind of order and beauty. I want to work out at the gym and climb Jacob’s ladder (REALLY!!)
I wrote to him last week. Finally. It’s not like me to not write, especially to him, because for about 4 years he was the only person I wanted to write to. Everything. And how in that I didn’t realise how lost I was. How everything I thought I wanted to say was in context of how I would write or say it to him, not how I would write or say it just because it was mine and I wanted to write it or say it. Everything I wrote (even my blogs) I imagined him reading, and his feedback was always the feedback I took to heart the most. So it’s probably no wonder I got all a bit lost when the person I lost myself in turned out to be as lost (if not more lost) than me. Two lost people navigating towards a foggy horizon. There’s a train wreck waiting to happen.
Anyway, I’ve gone off track.
I wrote to him last week. I finally didn’t write for a response or an apology or an explanation. I didn’t even mind if he wrote back. For once (or every time) the healing was in the writing not the reading. He did reply. Really quickly in fact. I got an apology, which felt good. He said he wasn’t excusing or justifying anything, but it did feel a lot like he was. For a few days I tossed round in my head a few of the things he said, wanting to make him wrong and I composed my reply (in my head) to make sure I was right. I cannot fathom nor excuse his choice to go immediately into a relationship with someone who is SO FAR from who I am, who I ever was and who I will ever be. I’ve been so insulted about this because once I stopped making it about appearance the truth is she is 20 years and continents away from me. And I was trying to make this about me. But it’s not. It says more about how far away he is from me (right my wise 26 year old friend who sometimes forgets she’s wise because she’s 26???) and finally I am OK with how that is. And I don’t have anything more to say. I did think we would always be friends and somehow our children would always be connected. But because of how it is, this is not going to be, and I don’t need him to hear me anymore. Thank goodness he stopped listening so totally and abruptly. I’m the only one who needs to listen to me.
And now, as this life unfolds in the way it was always meant to, sometimes I might drink beer on Saturday. And chai on Sunday.
Today everyone I saw at the markets talked to me. I was seeking chai but the Chai Lady was seeking something I had to say. I didn’t used to offer that to everyone because I was saving so much of it for him. Somehow there is more to give when you are alive. Don’t skip the healing bit. Take as long and as hard and as fucked up as you need. And then one day, you won’t just be OK. You won’t just have survived.
You’ll be all alive and shit and you’ll remember that this was the point all along.