Loneliness.
I'm not talking about
solitude - that's the pleasant version. Nor am I referring to lack of company -
I have company by the bucketload, more than I can handle some days. I'm a very
lucky girl in that respect. No, I'm referring to the bit where I turn out the
light of a night time and roll over to snuggle up to NOBODY. I'm talking about
waking up on a Sunday morning and looking lovingly into the eyes of my teddy
bear. Going for walks with no-one's hand to hold other than my own. Cooking
meals for one with no affectionate arms about my waist and no words of
happiness whispered into my ear. Etc. Etc. Etc. That sort of loneliness.
It isn't just the being
loved that I'm missing, but the having someone to look after and fuss over and
care about more than anyone else in the world. I'm a girl who thrives on that
sort of thing. To find myself a man (oh yes, definitely a man. Maybe it would
make life easier to be looking in the opposite direction, but that's not my
(old) bag,) to love and be loved by.
I'm sick of people telling
me to be patient, and my time will come yada yada. They always say it to me
from the comfort of their conjoined lives. Their time came, most of them didn't
have to wait. For several of them, it's not their first time either! How have I
missed out on this? My time should be HERE, NOW, while I'm still young enough
to enjoy it. I should have to kiss a lot of frogs before I find my prince, you
say? Well let me tell you, there ain't a single reptile leaping onto my lily
pad, other than the odd married toads, slimy and not even worthy of a snog. Not
that I'd tiptoe over that particular minefield again...
I am writing today, in
spite of having a billion-and-five other things to be doing, because I want to
convey the raw despair that bubbles to the surface from time to time. It's
usually triggered when I see a well-established couple, comfortable and in tune
with each other, like they have been for years. Or a new pairing, flushed with
the excitement and novelty of it all. Where have I gone wrong that I'm not part
of any of this?
Life as a "one"
is so much harder. Obviously it's a financial struggle. With another person in
my home, I'd be paying half the rent and a third less council tax than I am
now. (A concession to us soloists is that we get a 25% discount for being stuck
on our own. Not 50%, 25%. Sigh.) I might even have a crack at a mortgage!
Everything else would stay the same. In terms of being socially acceptable,
it's like a disease. Who invites single people to anything? We mess up your
lovely even numbers. We bang on about being lonely. Far better to just ignore
our existence and stick to your own kind. I wanted to attend a quiz night a few
weeks ago. Teams of four. I couldn't think of anyone to ask to come with me. I
couldn't bear to just turn up and see if I could tack on to a group of
strangers. I stayed at home.
I've all but completely
forgotten how wonderful love can be. It'll be things that you attached folk
take for granted, I dare say. In the times in my life where I have been half of
a whole, I valued them daily: The touch of a loving hand on my face. Losing
myself in beautiful eyes that were in turn losing themselves in mine. Cuddling!
Not platonic hugging, proper cuddling where you hold and you hold, that can
only happen between partners. Skin-to-skin contact, anywhere. That sort of
thing. Definitely the, cough, physical side of things too. Apparently, as a
woman of my age, I'm at my sexual peak. What's the point of that when there is
no-one to reach the summit with me? What. Is. The. Freakin'. Point. ??.
It is definitely the
company of a special man that I crave, and for that reason I do some sad and
heartbreaking things. I talk to myself all the time, ironically to keep me
sane! But more - I talk to my ted, Bracc. And my car, Jeremy. They are my best
friends. My constant companions. I am on the very brink of buying some chaps'
deodorant and spraying it about the house. Or adding a few drops of aftershave
to my pillows. I have so nearly bought a man's shirt on several occasions, just
to put in my wardrobe, just to pretend.
Two years ago, I did
something unwise: I listed all the attributes that I would find pleasing in a
bloke. The result was my ideal man, created in word form, and then just as
quickly written into a story which has since expanded to almost novel
proportions. In an attempt to hone it, I recorded myself reading it out loud
and thus gave him a voice! I play these files sometimes when I can't sleep
(which is almost nightly,) and I imagine what he would be like. (He has a name
of course, but I'm not ready to divulge it.) I talk to him too! I think of what
he'd be doing, what we'd be doing, especially in those moments of utter
loneliness. He even has a playlist on my iPod FFS. Of course, I am madly in
love with him. It's all a bit Pygmalion really, and just another reminder of
what a tragedy my life has become. The unwisest part is that now I've made him,
I'll sub-consciously compare any man I meet to him, and no-one will come out
favourably. I've set myself an unattainable target! The only advantage that
anyone has over him is that they exist. He, poor chap, cannot.
But being real is not
enough! At the very least, I would like:
- A man.
- Who is straight.
- Who is single.
- And roughly my age, maybe a tad older - this
is not a deal-breaker, because...
- CHEMISTRY. (Which can happen at any age, and is so valuable, and so elusive. If you've got it, cling on to it. It's wonderful, you lucky sod.)
Am I being too picky? Am I
asking too much? I must be.
I feel like I have no choice.
Given all that I have written above, you'd think I should be glad of whatever I
can get. Beggars do not have that freedom of selection, right? If a single man
is showing an interest in me, I should grab hold of him, regardless. Well I've
got news for you, world: I cannot do this! To quote that great philosopher
Cyndi Lauper - It's not real if you don't feel it. (The Goonies 'R' Good
Enough, 1985) When I feel something, it's in my heart and it radiates out.
If it's good, I'll want to laugh and scream and shout about it, and love and
love and love. I have never faked anything (yup, anything...) and
there's no way I'm starting now.
Ahhh this writing is
helping. I've been at it for an hour and I've just stopped crying. Hurrah for
the power of words.
Hope is dying, I'm afraid.
I always say I won't give up, but nearly three years of experience and hurt is
changing my mind. I've used the word "never" a couple of times in
conversation. I'm afraid that I don't believe there is anyone for me. Not
anyone that I can be with, at least. Finding straight, single men at
around my age is like looking for a point to Kim Kardashian's existence. I know
that folk mean to be kind, but "you'll find someone when you stop
looking" is another phrase I could do with never hearing again. I mean,
how does it work? I'm not really looking. I did try Guardian Soulmates, but I
stopped using it after that chap blocked me back in July. Yesterday was the
first time since then that I have logged in. Just seeing the page upset me
greatly. It brought back a flood of emotions - all those messages I sent that
were ignored; the few messages I received that fizzled to nothing, and the ones
that were from totally unsuitable guys. I sidestepped it all and headed for my
account settings, which I altered to ensure that they don't take more money
from me when the six months I originally paid for is up (this Wednesday). It
would appear that my second foray into internet dating hasn't worked either. I
doubt I'll try it again. This too is not my carrying device.
So Well-Meaning People, if
I'm not looking, how come no-one has turned up to claim me, eh everybody? Maybe
it's that, while not actively seeking companionship, I'm doing it
sub-consciously. All the bloody time! I'm sizing chaps up, whenever I see them.
Of course, they are almost always already attached. I don't understand this
either. Where are the single men??! I'm guessing that it's unusual for a
girl... er... woman of my age to be single and childless. Blokes my age are
probably those with young families, who haven't fallen out of love with their
wives yet. (Cynical? Moi?) I'm too old for
Basically, I'm saying that
having established that the chap is straight, single and sexy, there’s all the
other crap. And if, after all that, I decide that I like him, I could almost
guarantee that he’s not interested in me.
I’m not (completely)
stupid. I know that beauty is much more than the surface. However it is that
surface that can be the first thing people notice. In terms of what I see, I'm
more likely to fancy someone who is taller than me, who has hair, and who is
musically inclined.
The height thing troubles
me increasingly. I feel like a big, hulking girl. Even at 11st 10 ish. I’m
broad of shoulder, thick of limb; Wide of thigh and of knee, and of the top bit
of my lower leg (what is that called? Is that my calves? They’re more like
heifers.) There is one (or rather two) place(s) I could do with being a couple
of sizes bigger, not because they are that small (they are) but they aren't
proportionate to the rest of my enlarged frame. Of course, as I get older, they
just get smaller! While not the tallest of women, I am increasingly aware of my
height: It's above the average for a UK UK
In terms of what the world
sees, I feel as if I'm already on a loser. How can anyone possibly think that
the collection of cells that make up this Lizzie is remotely good to look at? I
wish I knew where this came from. Was it the boys at school who always laughed
at me because I was a bit different? Was it the fact that when I was a
teenager, everyone seemed to have a boyfriend except me? I hope you're making a
list of Stuff Not To Say To Me, 'cos you can add the old "nonsense, you're
lovely etc" to it. I must learn to feel attractive by myself, even
comfortable in my own skin, and not to need someone to do that for me. It has
got to come from me. The most important thing is to be true to yourself. I am
who I am (cue for a song…) and I want to be proud of that. It’s just that some days
I can’t find the resources, and today would be one. Yet the way I feel about
myself is a small part of the issue, and doesn't have much to do with this
aching, yawning chasm that nothing else can fill.
So apart from all that
malarkey, how is the rest of my life going?
My birthday turned out to
be the best in my forty years so far, thanks to several wonderful individuals,
including my parents and my sisters, and to me managing to stop crying for long
enough to have fun. I had wanted this entry to be all shiny and positive on the
back of that, but today's despair has got in there first. Plus, there were a
couple more of those sorts of events that knock this girl off her feet and back
into the poo around that time, and I'm still trying to stand up again after
both of them. Although it has been a couple of months, I'm logging them here:
The first arose from the
rock/pop band that I was singing with. (Should I name and shame them? Not
gonna. I'm not that sort of girl. They shall be WJ for this tale.) After the
whole "singing flat" debacle, which expanded into me falling foul of
rotten communication between band members (who have been mates for over a
decade), I was persuaded to go up for a rehearsal, at which a bass player and
drummer were present instead of the backing tracks. This changed things a
little, but I liked it. Live music is always best, though not always possible
for reasons of space etc. I'd had to make a super effort to be there - I was
already slithering downwards on my spiral, and it was the first time seeing the
chaps after Everything. But in the name of not giving up, I made me an effort.
To say it was loud would
have been an understatement! I had to scrape my brain off the wall after each
number. The new musicians were related and incredibly talented, and I could see
the gap between me and rock more widely than ever before. I'd been OK with the
backing (eventually). Comfortable, knowing that it would always go the same way
every time. Here was pure rock, where the chaps in charge would do what they
damn well pleased, which would vary according to sobriety/memory etc and have
little to do with the singer! My comfort zone waved at me from several miles
away. Mr You-Sing-Flat-I-Sing-Great was as he always had been with me; Mr
The-Sensible-One was really sweet, and gave me a huge, comforting squeeze as I
left that evening, reassuring me that everything was going to be fine. I wasn't
sure.
Anyhoo, shortly after my
last blog entry - maybe even because of my last entry, which would make
this even more lamentable - this happened: I was idly flicking through FB.
Someone had posted on the WJ page that I had set up for us, which I and Mr
YSFISG administered. I went to look. It announced that WJ were pleased to
welcome their new bass player. *Scroll down* It announced that WJ were pleased
to welcome their new drummer. *Scroll down* It announced that WJ were pleased
to welcome their new singer.
Er, what?
In disbelief, I checked
the page. All references to me, pictures of me were gone. Instead was someone
else, who had had one rehearsal with them and was clearly very excited about
the whole thing, just as I had been a few months back. She'd even posted a
little video clip, which my curiosity made me watch the first thirty seconds of
before my pride made me stop. She was all right actually, and looks as it
she'll fit in with the whole rock ethos better than little Miss
Sixth-Form-Prefect here. I didn't mind being replaced - I'd been expecting it.
The thing I objected to was the cowardice of the method used. Wasn't I worth a phonecall of explanation first, even an email? This was akin to being dumped by
your bloke sending you a pic of him with his new, prettier girlfriend. I was
incredibly hurt.
So much so, that I decided
I did not want to be reminded of any of it. I removed the other chap as admin,
and then deleted the page - only that took fourteen days until it would let me
actually remove it (FB rules). I knew he would set up another, and that was
fine. I just wanted all my friends who had liked the band because I was in it,
to not like the band any more. No reminders. I unfriended certain people, who
clearly weren't my friends. This isn't like me, but again I didn't want the
pain. If I was a vengeful girl, I could have caused a bit o'bovver - the guy
behind all this was one of the inappropriately-texting married men that I
remonstrated in a previous blog entry. I still have all of his messages on my
phone, and know how to contact his wife. But as I said earlier, I'm not that
kind of girl.
(I've just been reading
the email exchange that led up to this incident, and it makes me so sad. I'm
definitely better off out of it - a fact that I used to console me between
blubs - but I will miss it. It was, for the most part, a wonderful slice of
fun, and another experience to add to my collection.)
What concerns me the most
about this is that I have a feeling my mental state and my lack of confidence
let me down here. Regardless of the reactions of others, I wonder if I had been
happier in my own skin and less open about what bugged me, would I have been
able to make a go of it? I think I miss out on a lot of good stuff because of
this.
Oh, and note to self: Stop
joining bands in Spring then being kicked out of them in the Summer. Two years
in a row now!
Number two number twos:
And this one actually matters...
Yes, I love being
self-employed and working freelance. I must do, as I've just celebrated a whole
decade of freelance puzzle compiling, and I've never stuck to anything
even half that long before. The pros are corkers: Flexible working hours -
ideal for a creative mind that doesn't always get going when you need it to,
then wakes you at 3am , sparking
with inspiration; working from home suits me admirably - no commute; no fights over the air con; no-one looking over your shoulder and
berating you for doing anything that isn't work; no clothes, if I feel that way
inclined! Oh man, it's perfect.
However the main con is
big and fat, and happened just after all the birthday loveliness. I'm not
employed, I'm not contracted: Work can appear in an instant (which makes my
day), but it can disappear just as quickly. I got a call from the place I
freelance for, and when it was over, my monthly income had been reduced by just
over a quarter.
A quarter!
I was already struggling,
now I'm drowning. I've done the maths. I can pay my rent, my council tax,
electricity and gas, contact lenses, TV licence, broadband, mobile phone....
and then that's it. No money for, oh I don't know, food. Petrol/car. And I have
to pay my taxes too. What stinks even more is that I was quite slick at the two
puzzles that have gone back to the office. I had them done and dusted so
quickly that it made for an eye-watering hourly rate. I'll not get that again
working from home, unless I go for a, er, different kind of profession. I
haven't altogether ruled it out!
Life since then has been
All About the Money, All About the Dum Dum Da Da Da Da, much to my dismay. One
by one, the little things I love to do that keep my morale ticking over are
being kicked out of my life, and replaced by big things that I need to do to
keep my financial head above water. Cost-cutting measures include eschewing
Twinings decaf Earl Grey and going back to plain decaf; yer basic liquid
ibuprofen instead of Nurofen, and eating a lot - a lot - of beans. Oh these First World Problems.
I am not, contrary to what
you may believe, a fool. I know that the reason for my low income is that I am
not doing enough work. The depression impedes me somewhat, yet I must find it
within myself to overcome that for long enough to get some sort of momentum
going. The increased dose of tabletage has been working its magic since the
summer. It takes the edge off the lows, I can't deny it. In fact, it takes the
edge off everything. My head is a swimmy, floaty mess, like it's covered
in cellophane. Remembering things is like nailing that wobbly dessert stuff to
the brick structure that supports the ceiling. As my doc has pointed out, it
has to be this way:
"If you want to not
feel the lows, you can't feel the highs too, I'm afraid. It's a price you have
to pay."
Dammit.
That's me then. Lonely,
broke and vacantly grinning through all of it, while working my arse off to
pay my rent. More about that in the next entry. Work, I mean. Not my arse. It's
not a good thing to get them confused. Speaking of which, it's time for me to
get off of one, and get on with the other. You can decide which.
Is it better to be
single and unloved, than in a relationship and unloved? Is it better to be in
love with a man you can't ever have, than to not be in love at all? Is it
better to just shut up about men and stuff your face with chocolate, and be
glad that the only fart gas you inhale on a regular basis is your own? If you
know the answer, drop me an email. In the mean time, I got me some chocolate to
eat...
