a blog about an Essex girl living in Swansea, chatting about baking, rowing, other bits and bobs, and some crazy teaching times in India

Sunday, 18 November 2012

Hitting rock bottom

This is the beginning of a multiple post spree. After a week of hell (I'm not even exaggerating), which I did partly bring upon myself, I am setting myself up in the library. Ready to work/at least pretend to be working. Getting things done. That doesn't necessarily mean doing university-related studying, it includes a manner of all things. I have my belongings spread out around me, laptop case to my right (one of my most pretty studious possessions, it has a Cath Kidston-esque rose pattern; it makes me feel better about lugging my laptop onto campus); a block of lined paper to my left, covered by forms I have received this week (all shall be explained); and then my slightly battered pencil case rests on top of this slightly disorganised pile. I had full faith in nabbing the corner desk; the basement part of the library is never packed out unless it is exam time, but have had to settle for another. It's not quite the same. Massive evils for the guy who is sitting in my spot. Go swap seats please, and take your massive folder with you. It's not even a nice coloured folder. I need to stop being so possessive. Or stop being a bitch. One of the two.

I shall start by explaining a bit about That Week. I've began the words in capitals because it is that type of experience in my life that I know I want to forget but will have to refer to it at some point in future. It has to have a name, because it is a relevant piece of history. It's like the Easter weekend or something, only a lot less festive and a lot more depressing. But maybe a similar amount of chocolate is needed. If only I wasn't pretending to be healthy... (This consists of eating less junk-type food but huge portions of it, so, in effect, I'm still a little piggy whatever I do. Dieting doesn't seem to work on me, ever).

Back to the story. I went out with a boy. A really lovely one at that. Lovely isn't even the word. Kind of indescribable. I was one of those cringey relationship people that I now hate - not hate, really, but I am probably just massively jealous of. I was soppy, I was so willing to please, I would have done anything for him. But this summer, everything took a turn for the worse. Bloody hell, I think I'm going to have a little weep in the library. Pull yourself together woman! We went through the break-up motions. There wasn't really any sense to it; I didn't see any sense to it. And it hurt. Feelings changed, things wobbled, the balance was thrown off. It's never returned either. It's like a boat. Hello rowing reference. We're sitting in a pair, one behind the other, and our hand heights are terrible; my oar is hitting the water, and his is somewhere up in the air. We're trying, we're trying so hard to get it back, but somehow we can't readjust. We're always somewhere far from getting it right. The boat shudders, halts, I fall in. I'm now in a entirely different place altogether from him. Dragged underwater, the current is pulling me... I'm trying to swim, trying to breathe. I am struggling. We're totally separate. Apart.

I should have told him. I should have done things differently. I should have considered the future. We can't change the past though can we? My silly decisions have led me to this outcome, and now I have to live with it. I think I might have accepted that, but I think a tiny part of me is telling me it's all a bad dream. I wish it was a nightmare - I will wake up soon, in my bed at home, perhaps in a hot sweat and clothed in my Eeyore nightie (I don't bring this to uni, it's too embarrassing). I'll be eighteen, I'll be full of ambition and dreams and idealised university nonsense. Nothing will have hurt me, hurt anyone. Innocence is bliss.

I don't really wish that. I kind of do.

This week has been horrible because I lost him again, when I thought things were coming together. Hopes were crushed, again. It's hideous when you've built yourself up numerous times and every time you've been pushed back down. Flattened. Fly swatter. Smack in the face, squished on a wall. Destiny is the black bin bag, joining the rest of the unwanted rubbish.

'It's good you hit bottom. Now the only place you can go is up.'
You're totally right, Jill Clayburgh. I love the film Bridesmaids.

That was deep for a library session. I stopped midway through this for a food break, and am now a bit spaced out, sipping on my Praline and Cream Latte (oooohhhh Christmas coffee!) from the Costa outlet which takes pride of place in the front foyer of the library, raking in buckets of dollar from the caffeine junkies of Swansea University. I happen to be one of those, buzzing in the library, diffusing my tiredness. Bit disappointed. I got cream  (of course. I already said, I'm a little piggy) but underneath that it was more foam than coffee. No good. Should I email them complaining? RA, RA, RA, I DIDN'T GET ENOUGH COFFEE IN MY CUP.

It's sad that talking about the quality of my coffee is an interesting topic for me right now.

Big love, stay safe. Tell the truth always. xo

P.S. You're not just the main character in your life story. You're the author. Don't get stuck on one page, write that book for yourself. You have the opportunity to begin a new chapter, slowly but surely.

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