I think I’m done. Not with navigating life on my own, but the opposite. I’m done with dwelling on how J’s suicide has affected me.
Normally what I want to write on these blog posts comes to me organically. Inspired by day-to-day events and how they link back to what happened. But these last few weeks I’ve been finding myself with nothing to say.
I had a small set-back a few weeks ago. I’m choosing to look at it as confirmation that I have learned a lot about myself and what I need over the past three and a half years since J died.
I’ve spoken previously about my disastrous experiences with online dating. But I also recognise that being in my fifties and living in a tiny village are not conducive to meeting new people organically. And this is despite all the new activities I have been doing. So I decided to try again, just to ensure I was ticking that box, just in case. So I quietly joined a dating site and haven’t download the app. I log into the website occasionally and ensure I am very specific about my search parameters.
Unsurprisingly it hasn’t proved to be a successful tactic. The people I message don’t reply and those that message me don’t spark my interest. But I’m not desperate, lonely or in despair. It would just be nice to have someone to share things with.
A couple of weeks ago someone messaged me who seemed promising. We continued messaging for a few days and this is where it all went wrong: I dared to hope. Looking back on it, I can recognise that there is a part of me that thinks – illogically – “I deserve happiness after everything I’ve been through.” The world doesn’t work like that, I am fully aware. But how do I explain this to the eternal optimist that lives inside my brain?
In any case, we arranged to meet. Only he decided to call me at 10pm the night before we met. He was blind drunk. We had an excruciating conversation – though even using the word ‘conversation’ is being generous. It was more a drunken monologue on his part (a bottle of vodka will do that). He thought he was being hilarious but he was actually quite rude (about my voice, my accent, about his mother) and mocked me when I tried to interject.
The next day I cancelled our meeting. To his credit he asked me what had happened on the call. When I elaborated he sent me a very heart-felt apology. So far, so typical of the brutal world of online dating. But something has changed, and that something is me.
There were aspects of this man’s personality – the disregard for his own health (drinking while taking painkillers, multiple accidents and trips to A&E), his scorn for his mother, the manic energy – that reminded me of J. If I had met him six years ago, I would have given him the benefit of the doubt. I’d have made excuses for his erratic behaviour, telling myself that he seemed like a nice person underneath. I’d have overlooked it all and convinced myself it was an isolated incident. Ever the people-pleaser, I would have gone to meet him anyway.
These past three and a half years of reflection have transformed my outlook on life. I don’t want chaos, manic highs, unpredictability. I crave calmness, doing activities that make me happy, being out in nature. God, I sound intolerable. But disappointing though this recent hiccup was, I’ve taken it as a positive. It was confirmation that I finally know how to prioritise my own needs over someone else’s.
I went to the seaside last week, with the dogs and a friend. It was freezing cold but bright. There were hardly any people there. Opti galloped for miles across the sand, with Larry’s little legs going full pelt trying to catch up with him. It was life-affirming, beautiful, bracing. I came home completely content with my life. That’s all I need.
If I stop to think about what’s changed in my life since J’s suicide – that’s when I appreciate how far I’ve come.
I’ve gone from working a full-time, stressful job to doing part-time consultancy (which I love). In making this switch, I’ve found what really energises me at work. I’m excited about what I do for the first time in years.
Alcohol is no longer part of my life. It played too big a part when J was with me. He hated it if I tried to cut back. Having passed the one year mark since giving up, I tried a little experiment last night. I had a glass of red wine. I loved how it tasted. But I hated how it made me feel: groggy, fuzzy, a bit irritable. So it will not be coming back into my life, at least not on a regular basis.
I’ve started new hobbies – gardening, the choir, this blog, Greek dancing. Though I don’t go to Greek dancing regularly – it gives me flashbacks of how out of place I felt at Greek school. Something to work on.
I finished writing my novel! Not that I’m expecting anything to come of it, but I’d been battling with it for years and never thought I would complete it. I now need to edit it and submit it to publishers. But 76,000 words of it are done!
I’m sure I’ll come back to this once in a while. I have been caught out before – thinking “I’m cured!” and then having a set-back. It’s not something you can be cured of, I know. But the fact that I’m not itching to get my thoughts down every few days signifies to me that I have found peace in my life. For the time being at least.
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