Limbo

At the moment all I seem to be doing is waiting.

I’m waiting to hear from the talking therapy my GP referred me to a few weeks ago.
I’m waiting for my (ex) other half to start talking to me again.
I’m waiting for my life to change, not sure into what.

After our row last week my now ex hasn’t acnowledged my presence in the house in any way.
The first morning after I made two cups of coffee like I always do, but he ignored it and made himself another one.
The full cup sat there on the kitchen table for hours, as a painful physical statement of “I want to forget all about you”.
I threw it away in the end.

It’s small things like this that really get to me, reminders of something that has been lost.
Reminds me of when you first get together with someone, the little gestures and things that are sweet, surprising and delightful.
Someone wiping a breadcrum from your face, slicing you some fruit, or holding the umbrella for you.
They cheer you up and make you feel special.
Like a cup of coffee in the morning.

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A house haunted by the living

First I was going to call this post “the World’s End”, but decided not to – nothing has really ended in that way, and it might have come across a tad overdramatic. An era in my life has ended for sure, but it never was my whole world. Perhaps it should have been.

My partner and I just split up couple of days ago. What makes this very unfortunate situation is that we have to share this house for the next 6 months, and we are not talking to each other.
Not in a menacing sulky- kind of way, just like the house was occupied by melancholy ghosts who were just barely aware of each other.

Our cheerful toddler runs amok like he always does, thankfully blissfully unaware of what is going on, with a  big grin on his face  and pretending to be a dinosaur.
Me and his dad laugh from separate sides of the livingroom, but we don’t share the laughter.
I feel the worst for him, even though he is too young to understand I’m already worrying how he will feel when dad is not living in the house anymore.

 I honestly didn’t expect things to end up like this, even though we have had a rocky relationship since our boy was born.On hindsight I think I had a touch of post-natal depression, which to my other half is just a thing you can ‘snap out of’.

And me not being able to snap out of anything has irritated him beyond belief and it all erupted in most spectacular way this past weekend when horrible things were said and done, and bridges ended up being burned for good.

The gorgeous Black Dog by Levi Pinfold. Absolutely breathtaking illustrations.

Absolutely breathtaking illustrations.

Why I write

Ever since I was little, writing a diary was my way of organising my thoughts. The early diaries are full of stickers and doodles, the reasoning and logic of a ten year-old being charming and incredibly shallow at the same time.

I remember writing on it, sitting by my big wooden desk with a wobbly shelf attached to it, a green placemat covering the scratches I made to the table surface with my black refillable pencil.

When I grew older, diaries travelled with me, all the way up until about 10 years ago when I moved to London.
For some reason writing in English came more naturally for me after a while, but I was not able to write as much as I used to do.

This was odd, since writing was a way of letting off steam and finding out if things that bothered me really were that big of a deal. But, I ceased to write and I am now wondering if that has contributed to my head slowly tangling into a mess.

Now writing this is a different step altogether, since I am writing to (an imaginary) audience, with a potential reader maybe one day passing by.
This does make writing this text a much more self-aware process, and rather than just being a stream of thought I do edit it a bit.

Even though I didn’t intend it to be like that at all.

I never read my old diaries, or if I do it does overwhelm me slightly, like revisiting the old problems or situations I were in back then.
It almost feels like once you put your pen down and close the cover over the thoughts they are gone, and sorted, like a conversation.
It happens and once done it evaporates into air and is not attainable any more.

So, I don’t think this will ever replace the diary I am hoping I will start writing again.

 

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