New Endings

I grew up with divorced parents. They split when I was 4 and so I don't have many memories of them being together. Divorce in the early 80s (at least where I grew up) was still pretty rare so I was the only one in my year at primary school with divorced parents and there weren't many more of us at secondary/sixth form or Uni. I have horrified various friends and ex-boyfriends over the years with my voicing the opinion that when I got married I would also get divorced at some point after that. I expected my marriage to last about 10 years. I thought this was the only practical way to be and would help manage everyone's expectations. What I never expected was that it would end after just over 3 years. Yes, Pooch and I have separated. It's a trial separation so you never know but neither of us is that hopeful we can pull it around.

I hesitated for a few days about blogging about this. It is very personal and although this blog always used to be more like a diary than a craft blog, I'd deliberately shifted it to be less personal since I got married. I figured it was all private after that as it was no longer just about me - it was about 'us'. Now though it looks like it is going to be all 'me' again and hell, Crazy Aunt Purl got a two book deal out of it so why not. Besides, even post-therapy I still hate talking about emotional things and find it much easier to find release through writing about it instead. When I have to talk about stuff I get this tension across the tops of my cheeks - the muscles you tense when something smells bad or you're doing a rabbit impression.

Hate it. 

I'm meeting up with Pooch on Thursday to talk about things. I made a decision to move out at the weekend to give us both some space so am effectively flat-sitting for a friend who is away for a month. It means I've got a nice little one-bed flat near Elephant & Castle with a balcony and Sky but no toaster. Being able to move here for a month is a real life saver. But I still constantly have to fight the urge to call Pooch or go back to our lovely flat where we would hug and it would all be ok. Sometimes, life utterly sucks. I'm trying to put a brave face on it but inside I am broken. 

Living in a boy's flat (he owns it and lives by himself) is quite interesting in itself because there are no feminine touches anywhere. There is nothing to hang washing on for instance - because he just hangs it over chairs or on the back of doors. There are also no cushions. Not one. He's told me to do whatever I want to make myself comfortable but there's only one thing I've done so far. The doormat looked like roadkill so I have bought him a red and white polka dot one, which looks nothing like this picture.

I'm not sure what he'll make of it when he comes back but I'll be gone by then (where to I have no idea) and in the meantime it makes coming back to the empty, unfamiliar flat a bit easier.

All this means that I may be blogging regularly, if the cathartic spleen thing works out, or maybe not at all for a long time. But I'll probably carry on tweeting about random things that come to my attention (today there's been the nobel prize for physics, derivative creativity, trade union ballots and which pantomime an imaginary miner should be in) so you can follow me on there if you want to. Link is top left.