Break ups are rotten. Your sanity flops all over the place and it makes you think you have an excuse to be weird. I know they cause me to do strange things anyway. For example, I let my dog sleep in my bed. It’s gross, she stinks. And if I’m being 100% truthful, I actually had to force her to sleep there because she thinks I’ve gone mad, and just leaves as soon as I fall asleep.
Even though she licked my pillows, scratched my face and all round had terrible bed manners, I liked her there because she has a beautiful soul and thinks I’m the best even though I tell her what to do.
The dismantling of relationships really plays you for a while. Especially when one day you’re talking about having little babies and the next day you can’t emotionally locate the person you wanted to have babies with. Some break ups just spring up on you, like sunburn. One minute you’re like, yes – tanning weather, next minute you look red and ridiculous. The person you were totally digging yesterday starts to crush your spirit… and well, you know how it goes.
I hate when you wake each morning and have to remember they didn’t sleep next to you, and won’t be there tomorrow either. But they were here just last week, how can this be? you wonder as you adjust to the miserable reality of not being asleep. I hate it when you eat nice food and think about how much they would like to eat the nice food because you guys liked nice food. I hate coming home from work in the evenings and getting drunk because the couch isn’t the same amount of fun without someone’s feet on you. I hate the texts; the lack of texts, the overload of texts, the confused texts, the mean texts, the ignored texts. Texts suck, fuck you technology…
But what I hate most about relationships that explode in your face is not the bewilderment of oh my God, where did that relationship go? But the loss of motivation you suffer once you sift through the turmoil and see the relationship splattered across the wall.
I lose my motivation to be creative. It’s like I’m suddenly forced to wear this gross heavy jacket lined with gooey despair, and it’s so hard to get the thing off that I just give up and drink wine.
Wine is usually helpful with my creative writing, but when you’re wearing that stink ball of a jacket it’s just too hard to pick up a laptop and string readable sentences together. Not only that, but the content I write generally requires me to actually get out of the house and do something social and brave. Ain’t nobody feel like doing that when their heart is in multiples of ten.
Some people’s writing actually requires them to be wearing the jacket of doom and gloom. This is because their style of writing is dark, sombre and pain-infested. I hear they’re often self-destructive alcoholics, too. I guess I could have given it a whirl.
I’ve been pretty uncomfortable the last couple of months, as I’m sure anyone who has experienced a break up can appreciate. I’ve felt uninspired and frustrated, brokenhearted and bored. Which might explain why the blog hasn’t really had a great deal of my give-a-shit given to it. I’ve been reading self-help books, exercising and trying to see friends as much as possible. To be fair, I’ve probably been doing all the right things and deserve a medal.
Today is Valentine’s Day though, guys. Yuck, I know. And I hope all you coupled-up dickheads are planning to celebrate your healthy obsessions with each other over oysters and sex. Meanwhile I’ll be sitting here wondering if writing a post about my failed relationship was the right thing to do.
I’ve decided it’s time to get on with my creative life. Forget all the sads I’ve been riddled with so far this year and embrace 2017 for the dirty dog it is. Because goodness knows there are bigger problems in the world.
I’m moving back to the UK soon, flying out of Sydney in March, via India, UAE and Morocco. So I’ll be heavily on the lookout for comfort-zone breaching activities to do. I’m also now looking for a job, I’m going to be a real person again and I can’t jolly wait. Because I love paying rent, I miss it. I don’t.
p.s. call me if you have a writing job to give me in London
p.p.s. call me if you want to go on a date with me tonight