epsiode 27

Thank you, you bastard

I apologise in advance for this column. It's not my usual dating disaster or funny situation. But it is important as I am giving you an honest insight into my experiences. And this needs to be written; it's a relief to write it. The reason I started writing the column, as you know, was because of my ten year relationship ending, and the fact I moved back to the UK from Singapore, was a bit homeless, a bit heart-broken and more than a bit pissed off. Well, I am fine, after all this time I really am ready to move on and I know that because I can admit that I wasn't before. I hid behind the skirt of the defunct relationship; now I am ready to come out.
Not only has a lot of time passed but there was a significant thing other than the ex that was holding me back. I left Singapore with a one way ticket, and one suitcase full of inappropriate items. It's a long story but I sustained a packing injury (fell off a step ladder when intoxicated, trying to get my cowboy boots out of a cupboard), which led to a dislocated shoulder, so I had to get my ex to pack (not only did I have only one working arm but was high as a kite on painkillers) and he was so clever he packed swimsuits, sunglasses and summer clothes although I was going to London in December. Um, anyway my point is that I left an apartment full of belongings. Clothes, shoe, jewellery, handbags, pictures, CDs, DVDs, books, more shoes. You get the idea.
So, after I started thinking clearly (which probably took a few months, as well as running out of the deliciously strong painkillers), I addressed the topic of my stuff with the ex. Oh, of course he said he would send it all to me. Nothing to worry about. I had this conversation countless times over the next year. I even bored myself with the overused phrase 'when am I going to get my things?' I was beginning to recite it in my sleep.
Suddenly, my break-up and subsequent recovery became intertwined with my lack of belongings and my battle to get them back. I wasn't getting over him; I was fixated with getting my things. It was an obsession, and one that made me angry, sad, frustrated, emotional and exhausted. It seemed that all my emotions over the break-up were stifled because he still had my stuff. And he was the one who ended the relationship. And it wasn't they were any use to him; after all he would never fit into my shoes or knickers, even if he wanted to.
Insanely it was as if the fact my things were in the apartment, I was mentally still there. I couldn't get past it. I had chosen the apartment. I had ordered the furniture; I had bought every plate, cup and towel. Those facts annoyed the hell out of me. Because while I was a bag lady in London, he was enjoying the fruits of my labours; as were the women he was entertaining. In my bed. With the sheets I had bought (Egyptian cotton, very high thread count, like sleeping on air). It was enough to send me mad. And the more I tried not to think about it the more I did, and there was the viscous circle and I was wretched. The worst rage I'd ever experienced claimed squatters rights inside me.
Anyway, over a year later, a thousands emails, and texts, and threats to get on a plane, my belongings arrived home. You can imagine how excited I was. There were nine boxes full of my things and finally I could put the whole sorry episode behind me. I could finally close the door.
But nothing is ever that simple. It was great at first as I was reunited with my favourite shoes, but the elation didn't last long.
List of random things he included in packing: Two unwritten Christmas cards without envelopes; half used sellotape; empty plastic bag; Christmas stocking with his name on it; his racing bike manual; a pair of girls' shoes which certainly weren't mine.

I'll spare you the rest but you get the idea. Oh and I know the shoes weren't mine because they were ugly. The rage built again, oh so familiar, my body tensed and I remembered the nights when I would wake and be so filled with anger I thought I would never sleep again. I cried. A lot. It was as if I was re-living the break-up all over again and you know I really didn't want to. I really shouldn't have had to.

List of things missing from boxes: Jewellery box with jewellery; Mont Blanc pen given to me by my parents when I got my first publishing deal; books too countless to mention; shoes too countless to mention; digital camera; stereo; juicer etc; printer; all sorts of ornaments I collected when traveling round Asia; lovely and expensive handbags; pictures and paintings that he didn't even like.

I'll spare you the rest but you get the idea. Of course I should have taken everything precious with me when I left. But with the injury, the painkillers, the fact that I didn't even really believe it was over I didn't. And although I contemplated going back I couldn't face Singapore or him.
I emailed him and asked him why so much was missing. His flippant reply only fuelled my hurt and anger. I told him after waiting all this time I was pissed off. His reply was 'pissed off, oh well.'
I have no idea how I could have loved this man anymore. I know I did but God, I don't know why. So, after that I thought about what I would say to him next. My anger almost took over.
You treated me like shit. You cheated on me. You lied and lied and lied. You promised my dying father you'd always take care of me. We were going to get married. You made me move to bloody Singapore.
I had a thousand sentences like that to say to him. But you know what? When I finally calmed down only one glaring fact remained. He could still hurt me. I was the one in tears; he was in a lovely apartment where my office was now a games room. I could say all the above to him and more, but why? The most important thing in all of this is me. And I don't think any of the above would affect him, but it would me. I could chase my missing things for another year, probably, and that would keep me in the horrible place I'd been already for over a year. Although the relationship was over I was still letting him control me.
I finally had my epiphany and I could hear the angels singing. So I took a deep breath, I mentally let go of everything that was missing. Even things with sentimental value. I smiled at the idea he dated girls with ugly shoes. I realised that despite the struggle I was a better person without him than I was with him. Life hasn't been easy but I have laughed more, smiled more, and I even think I look better without him, if you know what I mean. I took back control. Instead of getting angry, instead of giving him the satisfaction of my rant and rage, showing him how he could hurt me, I thanked him.
Thank you very much, you bastard, I am so glad that you ended our relationship, my life is so much better without you in it.

And I meant every word of that, and I let the anger go and the hurt and I haven't stopped smiling since.