Considering this is a personal blog I can’t say I’ve written much that’s been, well, personal. I suppose the whole point of setting it up in the first place was to keep people abreast of my travel nonsense rather than as a scratching post. It also meant I didn’t have to send postcards. Have you seen the price of stamps today? Mental. It’s been a great way for me to keep my hand in at this whole writing thing too. I do love me a bit of writing, but without specific motivation it can be a little hard to get started. This little part of cyberspace I can call my own has helped that particular problem no end.
Still, it is with some trepidation that I begin a post that has literally nothing to do with travel and everything to do with my current mental state. That sounds a little dramatic: in general my mental state is perfectly fine. I’m not pooing myself crying every night. I have resisted the urge to strip naked and throw myself in traffic. Still, all is not well in the ramshackle bungalow of my mind.
Over the years I’ve been cruelly underexposed to serious matters of the heart. It’s so unfair. Although my teenage years were peppered with the occasional romantic deflation in reality they were all just juvenile drama or, as I’ve internally come to think of it, Drama. Drama with a D is easily defined: you’ve booked a cinema ticket, assured by friends they’ll join you. They don’t, you get annoyed and the resentment starts to fly. Drama. You fancy the knick-knicks off a lady type. She strings you along for a bit then starts dating your best mate. Drama. You tell someone a secret, they tell everyone. Drama. It’s all very highschool and until sometime in 2010 this was the closest to broken my little heart had been. Aw, bless.
The first genuine cracks were inflicted in the aforementioned year of our Lord two thousand and ten. I feel duty bound to say here that they were entirely earned by yours truly. They were cracks for which I’d drawn the blueprints and personally been granted planning permission. The person who finally bore the hammer and did the groundbreaking holds nothing but the utmost respect in my mind. It was a relationship that needed to end, a situation about as progressive as the KKK’s National Youth Program. Still, it hurt. In the space of about 2 hours my entire life changed. For the better as it happened, but you can’t really tell all that when you’re prostrate on a bathroom floor wishing you’d swum that little slower up the old fallopian tubes. It took a few months, but I was able to plaster over the cracks with something approaching the same colour and all returned to normal in terms of general outlook on life. In fact, things may have been that little bit better. I felt a little freer, a little easier, a little more willing to venture into the great gaping maw that is social engagement. I made friends, I dated, I experienced a few more instances of romantic Drama that were thankfully dismissed fairly quickly. Except that one time a girl stopped talking to me before paying me back. That hurt.
All of which brings me to the shrunken, blackened point of this whole self-indulgent mess. You’ve probably guessed what it is at this point. I never was very adept at subterfuge, like that one time I pretended to be Spanish on a trip to impress a girl from another school. Didn’t work; stubbed my toe and went all Northern. Anyway, yes. I am currently bathed in the radioactive afterglow of what would be, in the words of someone entirely less cynical, a second bout of fairly substantial “heartbreak”. Again, a bit dramatic there, especially if you’re clued in on the details of the affair that led to it. Which some of you might be. I haven’t exactly been quiet about it these last few weeks, spilling my woes to all and sundry whether they liked it or not. I do go on sometimes. Like now, skirting around the subject like an iceskater in a moo-moo.
I shall forego the details to concentrate on the after effects, if you don’t mind terribly. Not that the details aren’t interesting. They are, in fact, like something from a Bogart and Hepburn epic, an unwritten fever-dreamt Lawrence masterpiece, a scene from Friends where Ross and Rachel almost but don’t quite but then do have a little smooch. It was the most classically romantic experience of my life, romance beforehand being something I viewed in the same light as unicorns and fairies. But that tale is not for here. Ooh, I’m a tease. Needless to say things did not work out. There were considerable obstacles in the way of things working out and when I say considerable I’m talking obstacles the size of 18 wheelers crisscrossing a minefield ringed with barbed wire over a sea of hydrochloric acid on a gimbal in zero gravity. The kind that told the whole story before it even began. The kind I really should have taken notice of. However as we’re rapidly learning, I do like to put myself in these situations. For some reason. Silly Rik.
What I did not expect from things not working out was the lingering. With my previous experience the cracks were soon paved over and, unless the most astute observations were made, everything was as it should have been. This time the cracks expanded to become crevices and as we all know from Extreme Home Makeover, crevices are a fucker to plaster. This is something I straight up did not expect. Despite my earlier assertions, I was on some level aware that the endeavour I was embarking on was short term. I was willing to deal with the eventual negativity simply because the there and then was so ridiculously brilliant.
Here I am though, a not inconsiderable amount of time later with my mind still stuck in reverse. I’m not not having a great time here in Aus or anything; I’ve found an awesome hostel to work at, I have semi regular money coming in, I’m surrounded by great people. But in my quieter moments I still find myself thinking “What if?” and “Why?” like a younger, better looking and more talented Pete Best. I still can’t listen to certain music without ghostly monochromatic images of our time together fogging up my imagination. That’s almost the worst part; Daft Punk are ruined. Take my heart, take my soul but stay the fuck away from my musical French robots.
It didn’t help that the end was rather drawn out. I don’t think this was an act of malice by the other party, more one of confusion and, dare I say it, naivety. Still, all was well a lot longer than they should have been. I mean, things were great. Stuff was said that made me so excited for the future that I could, and did, shit. I was genuinely happy in a way I hadn’t been for going on 10 years. Then very suddenly things weren’t well, at least not on this end. I have no idea how things were/are for her although I’m willing to bet they’re better than they were for me. Believe me when I say there’s a reason for thinking this beyond simply feeling sorry for myself. This too made everything worse. When one is put in an uncomfortable situation by another in such a context one often takes solace in knowing the other party is feeling somewhat similar. Here I did not. Here I was faced with the horrible feeling that the other party was, in fact, quite happy. Not at ending things, just generally happy which was indescribably awful despite me saying I’d be happy as long as she was. Absolute bollocks as it turns out.
I haven’t quite been the same since. Half of me is genuinely worried I’ll never reach those heady heights again whilst the other tries in vain to coax him down from the lamppost of hyperbole and release the kitten of overblown sentiment. It’s no exaggeration to say I genuinely believed, still believe in fact, that this person could and would have changed my life for the better, and vice versa. Closure is not a word I bat around a lot, mainly for fear of mauling by the Manly-Man Bears that roam these parts, but it is something I believe every failed relationship is better with. Unfortunately in this instance it is something I do not possess, nor will I ever. That’s really quite scary. I thought the move to Aus and its associated adventures would still my twitching brain matter but so far that hasn’t been the case. I’m feeling a lot better than I was a month ago, which is encouraging, but Jesus Christ it’s taking longer than I thought. Here’s hoping that, like a freshly cleaved chicken, the twitching will eventually subside and the dull pain of wasted opportunity will machine itself into a delicious barbecue fillet of forward-looking anticipation.
Anyway. I just wanted to get all that off my chest. As I type this I have no idea if or when I’ll ever put this post up. It’s been cathartic getting it down though. Running through everything in a manner suitable for publication has put things in perspective and helped pass a pleasantly frosty day here in one of the most beautiful regions of Australia. Truly, I am First World Problems personified.
Song(s) of Moaning.
Again, YouTube is still blocked here so I’ll pop down a few options you can look up if you so desire. And you do. I can tell.
If this entry cast a depressingly long shadow on your otherwise happy day:
If you thought “Aw bless his naive little face.”
If your thoughts ran along the lines of “Silly twat.”