I am back together with Boyfriend.
Oh my god, I make myself dizzy with the seemingly endless cycle of 360s. Nobody can keep up with me and my life decisions. I can’t keep up with me.
Basically this is how we got back together:
I bought a new sofa and armchair on a whim from a charity shop. It was displayed outside in the sunshine and it looked great. When I asked how much it was, the volunteer told me €80, for both. I couldn’t pass it. It was arranged that it would be delivered the following Monday. That was a Friday. I was walking home from town where I had attended this so maybe I was feeling vulnerable or possibly buoyed by the experience as it was disconcerting and reassuring all at once, or perhaps I was both. Anyway, the sofa was bought and the old one was to be taken away for donation. Oh Jesus, I realised, god only knows what’s under there. Bits of biscuits; an old tv given to me by Berger that no longer works (it’s possible I and my temper may have had something to do with the damage done to it) -boyfriends have a habit of giving me TVs, the current one also gifted me a TV, a very nice one, but that’s not why I got back with him; pieces of rubber balls chewed and licked by the dogs; an old shoe, long abandoned by its pair. I started to stress. I’d do it all on Sunday. The day after was Saturday and I had a thing on – a social do for choir: a walking tour of Handel’s Dublin culminating in singing the Hallelujah chorus in Fishable Street and drinks in a nearby pub. Then of course, it was April 23rd on the Saturday and I was booked for a date with the BBC and the RSC for Shakespeare’s 400th Anniversary tribute. So Sunday was D-Day for the old sofa. Discovery Day – let’s discover what shite is under there.
Sunday arrived. It became clear to me that clearing out under the old sofa was not enough. ALL the furniture would have to be moved around. And not just in the living room. The WHOLE house would have to be upended and reconfigured. Including the corner cupboard with all the pots and pans. Because you know how the tidiness of your kitchen cupboards affects the delivery of a new piece of furniture in your living room. The cleaning and reorganising spiralled. I found myself getting hot and sweaty (and not in a sexy way): the PricklyBurn was back. The anxiety made me dizzy as I repeated silently that everything had to be done today and I HAD to get it all done, no matter what. Next thing I found myself screaming and crying scalding tears into the wardrobe where we keep our pyjamas and gym gear (again, I felt EVERYWHERE had to be cleaned out).
I guess you’re thinking now that I have digressed from the explanation of how I got back with my boyfriend. Well no, I haven’t. Because at that moment, I realised that I didn’t have to do everything by myself. That it was ok to ask for help, something I am loathe to do. I called him. The call was not out of the blue as we had still been texting a bit, discussing when we would exchange things left in each other’s houses (but he wasn’t getting the TV back) and have a “closure” talk. I was in tears. I didn’t have to say much, he just knew I needed help. He came in that evening and as soon as I saw him, I melted. By that time, I had got my shit together a bit so I wasn’t quite the blubbering mess I’d been on the phone.
“So you got back with him just cos you had a meltdown over moving some furniture?” I asked myself that question too. But no, I got back with him because I fucking love him. Shit. I fucking love him. That scares the crap out of me. He’s spent 4 out of the last 6 nights at my place and I’m ok with it. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still freaking out about being in a relationship but perhaps 10% less than I was before we broke up. So another 9 break ups and I should be fine.
I had a bad day yesterday, my day off from teaching. I couldn’t get out of bed. I couldn’t wake up. You know that feeling when you’re desperately trying to open your eyes but the exhaustion just won’t let you? Boyfriend and I stayed up late on Thursday night, I drank wine, he drank wine, I talked. For the first time, I spilled out lots of the shit in my head and I cried. Talking is not good for me. I felt guilty and ashamed the next day about opening up the dark tangles inside me. My sessions at the Rape Crisis Centre take it out of me too. I wasn’t hungover from the wine. I was hungover from the talking.
Today has been better. I got out of bed. Woo hoo. Boyfriend and his Little Boy came to visit. Little Boy is cute. He likes me. I took him to buy a book and he had a nap in my bed. Then we went to Airfield. It was very pleasant. But…
I am a nag. And I’m bossy. And I think I know best for everyone. I hear myself telling Boyfriend that he should go get a haircut; that he needs to check his posture (he’s a physio – he does not need my advice on this) or that the drinks he gives HIS son are full of sugar. It’s HIS son! I hear myself telling myself to shut the fuck up and stop being a naggy cow but I can’t help myself. And this worries me because I don’t like myself when I do this and if I’m trying to change him then what does that say about me?
Do I worry too much?
I haven’t been at the gym in a week because my back was acting up. It felt like it was about to snap. Then I moved furniture. Yep, I always know best for everyone else but I do stupid shit myself. It’s sore again yesterday and today, not in a nerve/muscular way but in a crampy way. Probably all that self-righteous baggage I’m carrying around.
Tonight, Boyfriend, Scandi and I are going to see Marvel’s Civil War so it’s a nice balance that Boyfriend and I took his kid to a farm and we’re taking my kid to a movie. Little Boy is gone back to his mam, and there’s a whole other bucket of worry. I know what it’s like to be a step mother and I know what it’s like for my kid’s dad to have a new missus. Oh my god, Modern fucking Family has nothing on us.
Anyway, there’s a quick update. I wanted to get this written before Scandi arrives home from shopping in town and Boyfriend comes back from dropping off Little Boy.
Happy Bank Holiday weekend to those in Ireland. I hate Bank Holidays.