This is a Blue post.
They’re rare these days, so I’m sure you can handle it.
I can’t always be hilarious….jeeeeeez!
While I am happier than I remember being in a long time, while my sad-making body chemicals are finally starting to right themselves and while everything seems a little clearer and a little brighter, there are Blue Moments.
I guess, you don’t just get over a relationship like the one I had with Him.
Sure, I’ve distracted myself from it.
I’ve pushed it down under lots of other things.
I’ve been very practical and factual about it on the surface.
And I sometimes I really do think ‘Hey this isn’t so bad!”
But most of the time, all I’m dealing with is what’s on the surface.
Because I don’t think I can deal with all of it at once.
I think I’m fine – I think I’m making progress – and then I realise I’m really not.
It overwhelms me and I know I’ve been kidding myself.
It’s still a ‘thing’.
It still hurts.
And I curl up into a tight little ball and stay very still and very quiet for a little while.
And then I feel better.
I feel brighter.
I still feel we made the right decision.
Most of the time, I feel I’ve moved on.
Other times it feels like I never will.
And it’s made me afraid.
Afraid to open up to someone new.
Afraid to be any more than ‘casual’.
Because moving on means letting go.
It also means stepping into The Unknown.
Being vulnerable and risking being hurt like the many times it happened before Him.
Being with Him was safe and warm and just full of love.
He was my home.
It was never like that with anyone else.
Right now, I don’t think I can be hurt again.
And I don’t know if I can find someone to make me feel like that again.
But I do have hope.
And I do know that this feeling isn’t forever.
I can already see how much progress I’ve made since it all happened.
And I know I can’t stay in this one place – this limbo – forever.
Moving on is a good thing.
A scary thing.
But a good thing.
I’m tentative and I’m building up walls.
But I’m leaving gaps between the bricks.
Just in case.
It’s Saturday night.
I have a busy week ahead, so I thought I’d throw together some posts now so the blog doesn’t get neglected during the madness.
Beside me is a glass of Chardonnay.
This doesn’t mean a thing to me; I’d just like to sound fancy and knowledgeable to any wine people out there.
But really I just read the label on the bottle.
The fact that it’s white does mean something to me though.
I happen to know for a fact that red tastes more like vomit than white does.
A third of my giant (stolen from a pub) glass is filled with Diet 7UP I found in the back of a cupboard.
I don’t buy Diet anything.
The Boy’s Nanny gave it to him after someone gave it to her when she was in hospital.
Typical Irish Nanny…forcing food and drink on people.
Yup I’m a classy 7UP and random present-wine from the fridge drinker!
I’m drinking alone on a Saturday night for a few reasons:
1. I’m hungry and all I had was a bottle of wine.
2. In attempting to justify drinking alone on a Saturday night, I thought I’d use this opportunity to find out what kind of blog post I’d produce when drunk. This is not that post. I have only had a few mouthfuls and even I’m not that much of a lightweight.
3. I wanted to go out tonight, but am incredibly poor and the group I was going to head out with are going somewhere that would require me to get a taxi there and back, which would cost a lot of euros that I don’t have and even if I didn’t buy any drink, I would still be in debt.
Instead I live with my boyfriend like a grown-up and we’re trying to save up a deposit for a house that will take us about six years to achieve.
I work in a 9-5 job that means I leave the apartment in the dark and come home in the dark.
It’s killing my soul.
This week, I worried about health insurance because my insurance provider (that’s right, I already HAVE health insurance) has upped its prices by 14%.
I’ve been budgeting like a crazy person so we stop spending frivolously on groceries.
I’m menu-planning like a crazy person so that we eat healthily.
I want to start going to the gym because I don’t exercise and I’m putting on weight, but I’m knackered by the time I get home from work and if I added gym time onto the already late time I get home, I’d be eating dinner at 9pm.
You’re not supposed to eat big meals after 6ish.
It makes you fat.
Did I mention I’m TWENTY-THREE!!!???
I know 30+-year-olds who don’t worry about their lives this much.
I love The Boy terribly and obviously, living with him is the one thing on that list I wouldn’t dream of changing.
But I feel it’s ageing me.
We’re planning our lives together.
And it’s right and lovely and makes me feel all fuzzy inside.
But it’ s brutally clear that it’s going to take a lot of growing up very quickly to achieve what we want by the time we want it.
Meanwhile, other people my age are abandoning their jobs to ‘find themselves’ while travelling around the world and getting very drunk.
This recession business is REALLY starting to hit home.
We’re not able to drag our teenage years out into our late-twenties if we want to take a practical approach to our future.
Money can’t be thrown around on the fun things, because jobs aren’t guaranteed and raises and promotions are terribly scarce.
And I feel hard done by because I wasn’t a Celtic Tiger baby.
It passed me by.
My family had hardly any money and now I’m starting to look the same.
Other people moan and bitch about it, but at least they had some good rich years.
I’ve never been able to relax with money and it doesn’t look like I’ll get the chance.
And what can we take from this, boys and girls?
Hermia gets really serious and depressing during her first glass of wine.
Bring on No. 2!
We handed them over to their new owners this morning.
With tears on my part.
The apartment seems so big and empty now and I feel a little lost.
They had so many little quirks and habits and routines that it’s constantly obvious that they’re not here anymore.
Whenever I stand up, I automatically look to see where they are so I can avoid standing on them when they run over to see what I’m doing.
When I open a bag of popcorn, I immediately expect Floyd to hop up on the couch beside me.
When The Boy walks into a room, I look to see if Judy is draped across his shoulders, happily purring.
But they’re not there.
And it’s painfully obvious that they’re not ours anymore.
I’m literally heartbroken.
And I know that might make me sound like a Crazy Cat Lady, but I’m too sad to care.
We adored those kittens and all their quirks.
So here’s a gallery of adorable pictures that I expect you all to look at and then leave comments telling me they were the most beautiful creatures ever.