The rain temporarily stops my chain, wheels and brakes from squeaking:) My poor bike desperately needs some TLC and oil this weekend.
That’s the noise du jour.
It’s the noise of surprise, non-fatal fear and sheer oh-my-god-what-the-fuck-has-happened-ness.
It’s the noise keeping me from dissolving into a sodden bundle of tears.
It’s the noise of a girlie (moi) who can see a lurking monster of future uncertainty out of the corner of her eye, but is refusing to face him head on.
J and I broke up on Thursday.
I’m numb and terrified and SAD. So very, very, very sad. The tears have just started dripping down my face. You know, the silent, fast flowing tears that don’t require any effort from you to fall. These aren’t the giant ragged breathed tears that stem from anger or a sense of righteousness.
These are the tears of an all consuming sadness and slight incredulity.
I haven’t really cried since we broke up. I haven’t cried at night when I sleep on my own in a different room. I didn’t cry once at work on Friday. But now I’m in danger of short-circuiting my ipad because there are two waterfalls cascading down my face!
We still love each other. There’s nobody else. There wasn’t a minor disagreement or a massive fight.
There was just a slow creeping realisation on my part that maybe, just maybe I might want children. And a very definite realisation that I don’t want to rent for the rest of my life and want to make some plans so I’m not working till I’m 90.
And so we’re not in the same place right now.
That’s the simplistic version of events. Of course it’s more complex, emotive and raw than that but basically I’m tired of being an irritable bitch to J because I’m unhappy in a myriad of ways.
And so we’re not going to be in the same place anymore.
There’s SO much to sort out. Logistically and emotionally.
I’ve got a very heavy couple of weeks coming up in work so we’re going to stay in our flat but in separate rooms for the moment. This has lead to a kind of surreal environment where we’ve replaced kissing and those little intimate touches with a high-five. It’s super weird calling J by his name and hearing him call me Mary instead of baby.
We will have to move. And that’s traumatic in itself. This flat is the first place I’ve lived I England that really feels like my home. That I’ve made my home and I’m so reluctant to leave it. As reluctant as I am to leave J alone in the other room.
I’ve told one friend that we’ve broken up. I’m dreading telling friends and family – I don’t think I’ll be able to keep it together. I’ve already decided not to tell anyone in work until I can do it without crying. I’m seeing my parents in ten days and even though I’ve just turned 33 I can’t wait for my mum to give me one of those close rocking hugs that she gives best. The ones that you know she perfected when you were a teeny tiny baby and that she’s somehow modified over the years to give you exactly the same feeling of comfort no matter how grown-up you get.
And then my absolute bestie is coming to visit. She’s been there from before the beginning and knows it all. She’ll drink until 6 in the morning with me, cackling over memories and force me to laugh at myself. She’ll distract me.
Part of me wants to run into the other room and tell him we’ve made a terrible mistake, let’s not do this. But the bigger more sensible part of me knows that I’d only be temporarily postponing pain and we would find ourselves in this exact place again.
So I’m going to distract myself from some of this pain until I can adequately manage it. I’m going to replace it with some Jillian Michaels induced pain. I’m going to concentrate on work. I’ll listen to the radio a lot, a lot a lot. I’ll run. I’ll cook. I’ll blog. I’ll move forward in baby steps.
I’ve had dozens of posts buzzing around my brain recently but, as you might have noticed, not a single one has made it from there to here. So in an attempt to put morder onto it all I’m going waaaaaaay back to February’s 13 in 13 round up.
Our challenge was to bring things back to basics. I started with the very best of intentions after the Whole 30 and my aims for the month were pretty straightforward; eat less, weigh less, spend less and move more.
In February’s four short weeks I gained about 5lbs (you can read why here). I was actually pretty surprised by my return to old eating habits. I genuinely thought I’d beaten some demons during the Whole 30 and definitely didn’t expect to find myself binging again. It took me a long time to work out why I was mainlining Malteasers and all things chocolatey (which I’ll explain more in a separate post) but eventually I did and I’m clocking up the binge free days again.
The weather was pretty vile during February but I still managed to get my long runs in. And despite feeling some wobble return I finally clocked a sub-30 5k and sub-60 10k. I felt in control of my running all month and genuinely enjoyed most runs. What really made the long runs fun was having J cycling alongside me, and a victory pint and chips afterwards.
Moneywise I paid off one debt four months earlier than expected which was an AWESOME feeling. I did have to put a few things on my credit card towards the end of the month but they’ll be cleared by June.
Despite the weight gain and binges, February was a great month for one big reason. It was the month my blog and real-life collided. I spent a LOT of time talking to J and my über-bestie about it. The love and reassurance I got back from both of them was incredible and went such a long way to calming my head during March. As if that wasn’t enough I also got to meet up with Rebecca for a slightly surreal Paul McKenna seminar. Hypnotism aside, Rebecca is a complete legend – funny, smart and she rocks a dress with super style – and l so enjoyed spending the day with her.
Stay tuned for March’s round-up, and April’s plan of attack!
I should know better by now.
A childhood spent sitting on damp pavements in “water (but not torrential Irish rain) proof” jackets should have taught me that March 17th is wet, windy, miserable and the parade is ALWAYS best watched on telly.
It’s a day to spend indoors in a scratchy uncomfortable dress with some wilting shamrock (or weeds: when you’re 5 it doesn’t really matter as long as it’s green) ripped from the back garden and pinned to your chest.
It’s a day of no school, no rules, Tayto crisps and the WORST excuse for a parade ever.
It’s St Patrick’s Day.
Somewhere along the way Paddy’s Day* transformed from a shoddy 4 float parade down O’Connell St to a worldwide celebration of all things “Irish”.
You know, like, green and leprechauns and cheap booze.
The one thing that has never changed is the weather. And so, I should have absolutely, definitely, without exception have known better than to sign up for a half marathon on March 17th.
But the promise of a day’s guilt free Guinness drinking obliterated the rainy memories and from the warmth of my toasty flat I registered for the Reading Half Marathon.
So tomorrow morning I have to dig some weeds out of the garden, grab a non-rainproof waterproof jacket and run 13.1 miles in the most time-honoured Irish tradition of all – through the rain.
As any Irish mammy worth her salt would tell me, “aah sure it’s only a bit of rain, it won’t kill you. Now stop complaining and eat that sandwich. There’s starving children in Africa”
Lá Fhéile Padraig!
* Paddy’s Day (no St.) is the ONLY abbreviation of St Patrick’s Day. St Patty’s Day is NOT a real thing. Like leprechauns.
I can’t describe how this song makes me feel. The first time I heard it, I was running by the river and it made my soul tingle. I want to wrap the notes around me in a never-ending replay coccoon.
It’s been the longest of times since I’ve posted anything to do with papercraft but this morning I stumbled across the work of Elsa Mora and fell head over heels in love with this piece.
It’s called Visionary, and this is Elsa’s explanation of it:
‘The girl had a vision, a dream about exploration and about going away. So she cut herself some paper wings. Her wings took her to the most unexpected and mysterious places. The journey was beautiful and painful at the same time. At some point the girl wanted to go back home, but she realized that her real home was her own mind, so she kept dreaming and flying until the end of her life.’
So beautiful and so true.