Light At The End Of The Tunnel

Morning all,  

So its that time of year again and all is well. Last week I shared the news with you all that I was yet again moving out of the hell hole I have spent the past few months living in and will hopefully be moving somewhere much nicer between now and the beginning of February next year. Also this week I have been busy with work, friends and family all in the run up to the festive period - Christmas! 

Now as many of you know, I had a bit of a pickle back in mid-October when Mr. Cheese asked me to come and spend the Holidays with him and his family. I was so taken aback by such a request that I didn't quite know what to do but nevertheless after thinking it over and being formally asked again by invitation of his parents I could hardly turn down a mini break with the Cheese's in rural, English countryside.  Whilst being a townie, I sure as hell know how to be a country bumpkin and feel I have been able to fit in well in the past when donning wellies and a pair of dungarees.  Only this time the added pressure of Christmas played on my mind and so I have decided to leave Mr. Cheese and the family to head back home for Christmas itself. It just wouldn't feel right not going for dinner with Miss Tweedle-Dee and Miss Tweedle-Dumb all with the possibility of bumping into some familiar faces. 

And so as I sit here on the train slicing through the hillsides I ponder across the few days I have spent with Mr. Cheese and his close-knit family. Since arriving at the grey, stone-built, cottage late on Saturday afternoon there have been a few comments made about my future with Mr. Cheese. From his jovial father, Pappa Cheese, I have been told that if I were to stick around long enough, I may be looking forward to Mr. Cheese inheriting his dad's good looks. Of course this, along with other comments, is something that played on my mind alot of late. I have had thoughts if Mr. Cheese and his wondrous charm. I think about the ideas of marriage and children.  I can't help it. Maybe it's just me. Maybe it's not. I don't know. But one thing I do is that despite trying to stifle these feelings for months, I do in fact love my darling Mr. Cheese. 

I want to scream it from the roof tops. Print out leaflets and tell passers by all these things I adore about him. The way he makes little noises. The way he holds me. The way he looks at me like no other man has ever looked at me before. And yet all of these thing's are somewhat overshadowed by the voice in the back of my head whispering darker thoughts of the year that lays ahead and what it might entail. Mr. Cheese could leave you. Lie to you. Pretend like everything is OK when in actually fact they are crumbling faster than a digestive in a mug of tea. Sometimes I feel so fragile and it makes me sick to think that nearly eighteen months on I am still dealing with the aftermath that Mr. Workaholic left me. Because he did. He left me. 

It was a wet, Friday evening in late April and I was ready to head home from my job in Northampton and into the arm's of Mr. Workaholic. My future. Everything I have been building my life towards for the past two years. Some day this man, this wonderful man I had dreamt of my entire life would be my husband and the father of my unborn and as yet unconceived children. As it tipped down with rain I excitedly ran to his white car waiting for me in the car park if my work. After shutting the door and pulling across my seat belt I moved in for a kiss and asked how Mr. Workaholic's day was. As we pulled out of the gates I knew that something was wrong. ''Maybe it was just a hard day at work'' I thought and didn't dwell too much on it.

Arriving home to our little two-bed terraced house we shared in an up-market suburb of South Northamptonshire I set about preparing dinner and making sure Mr. Workaholic was happy. I made his favourite and set it down on his lap in front of the telly. But something was gravely amiss. He seemed lost. I placed our plates on the coffee table and pulled him in for a cuddle, in turn asking what was wrong. He said nothing and shrugged it off but I knew better. After a while of trying to talk to him, going through every possible option - Had his nan's cancer returned? Was his father been taken ill? Is his brother still taking drugs despite his unstable mental health? No. None of them so I said that if he couldn't talk to me he should call his sister or maybe his mum. It was at this point he burst into tears and being utterly confused I knew this was something big. I urged him to speak to someone. If not me then someone else. I felt broken to know that he couldn't tell me but knew that he might be able to sort it out after speaking to some family or friends. Hours later a blotchy, red-eyed Mr. Workaholic pattered down the stairs of our little home and fell onto my lap, yet again falling apart in my arms. When I asked what was wrong this time I got the truth. The words rang out across the lounge, echoing through the rooms, smashing my whole being to pieces. ''I love you, but I don't want to be with you anymore.''

Feeling a rush of adrenaline my body couldn't handle it and as the poison seeped into my fairytale I dashed to the bathroom, being violently sick as my world fell apart. Hot tears streamed down my face rolling over my cheeks as I wretched once more. This can't be real. This can't be real. I kept reciting this in my head as spiralled deeper. The room began to spin and I felt myself getting dizzy. It was at this point I heard banging on the door and before I passed out I pulled down on the handle allowing my torturer in. I became hysterical and so the repetition began of salty tears and dry vomiting. How could this happen? Why? How long has Mr. Workaholic felt like this? Was there someone else? Was I not good enough? Did I do something wrong? All questions that are still left unanswered to this very day. 

As Mr. Workaholic pulled me in for a hug I pushed him away, disgusted at his works spilling out of his mouth, burning me like napalm, scorching my skin, forever to leave marks on my soul. In a hysteria I ran to our bedroom. The black, iron-framed bed we shared lay in the middle of the room. The one he gave his virginity to me in on our first night together. Flying open our wardrobes I snatched at clothes, pushing them fanatically into a bag. I didn't want to be here any more. I needed my Dad. Everything passed in a blur as I was screamed at to stop from an equally emotional Mr. Workaholic sobbing on the landing of our little home. As I pushed passed him he tried to stop me. Thundering down stairs and out into the crisp wet air I dialled a number, never thinking I would be saying this in a million years. A deep, jovial voice answered happy to see the caller ID. ''Daddy, I need to come home'' I said through my swollen throat. After the concerned enquiry and explanation I croaked a hard phrase. ''He is leaving me. He doesn't want to be with me anymore!''

As I turned to head back in out of the cold I saw a timid frame in the hallway. ''I'll take you'' he said with sorrow eyes. And so yet again I was forced to be in the company of Mr. Workaholic, a man whom up until an hour ago I loved. Truth be told I still did and I knew I would keep on loving him until the day I die. The journey was long and painful. I cried the whole way. So did he. We cried together mourning the end. But was this the end? Was this it? Everything I have been working towards and this is where the road ends? I was devastated. And as we arrived outside the house my Dad shared in Flitwick with his girlfriend I didn't even say goodbye as a left the car, making sure my bag was in toe, running into the arms of my father as his girlfriend attended to Mr. Workaholic to see he was alright to drive to his mother's a few miles down the road. Once more I cracked in my father's arms, disintegrating into a billion tiny, particles. I felt like a fragile glass on the edge of a cliff ready to plummet. 

And so began the months of therapy and depression that descended on my life still to haunt me to today. In the weeks that followed we had no choice but to live under the same roof, in the same martial bed and side by side ad we used to. After a trip to Ireland to clear my head whilst visiting family I returned back to our broken home to discover it somewhat empty. He had taken most of his things but also our sofa, the dining room table and chairs, the fridge-freezer, washing machine and both the bed we shared and the first bed we owned in the guest bedroom.  I was left with no bed and no sofa, in a cold and lonely shell of a house with the ghosts of better times suffocating me and invading my sleep. I didn't eat for several weeks and lost alot of weight and at times even thought about suicide to put an end to my literally aching heart. My lowest point was calling out to a charity helpline, pouring my entire existence to a women I have never spoken to before or since. From that point on I knew I could do better. I could get through this and become an even stronger person. 

I am still heartbroken and I am still mourning the life I never had. The children we had already picked the names out for - Oscar and D'Arcy; Names I still can't bear to hear, names that make my stomach turn. The lives they could have had and how they would have grown as humans. The house we never had. The BBQ's and parties and Christmas's we will never shared with loved ones. The holidays and memories all gone. Burned. Forever to be etched on my heart. But I know that one day, regardless of how painful that moment was in my life and how hard it was for me to drag myself out of, I know I will be alright. I know that one day I will have a family of my own with beautiful children and a wonderful, loving husband. A big house full of laughter and memories and plenty of time for all the BBQ's and parties and Christmas's I could wish for. Maybe it will be with Mr. Cheese? Maybe not? I don't know. But one thing I do know is that I love him and want to live life as it comes.

So Merry Christmas everyone and whoever you are, wherever in the world you are reading just remember that life gets better. 

'Til next time, Love A.Lou xx

The Grass Might Not Always Be Greener On The Other Side

Evening All,
 
I hope you have been keeping well. I have. So, after last weeks awkwardness with Miss Tweedle-Dumb's and Miss Tweedle-Dee's work colleague, Miss Lace, I am pleased to announce that everything is as normal and we are in mutual agreement that Miss Lace's feelings are not serious. At least that's what I am being told, I still feel that there might be more than meets the eye - Watch this space!
 
This week I finished my job with the local flooring company and once I had passed all my training with my new company I took my last journey to outer Bedfordshire to say my goodbye's and collect my things from my old office. Everyone was somewhat shocked to see me go which surprised me given the fact that nothing was rarely kept quiet, especially someone leaving. Regardless they were all lovely and courteous about my departure and wished me all the best as did I. To be honest I actually felt a little sad I was leaving despite only being there less than four months. I suppose I just felt as if this would be the final in a a long string of jobs I have previously had. A small part of me felt let down recalling what Mr. Workaholic had said last time I had to encounter his massive, fat head. (See Post 'A Shock, An Invitation And Compulsory Meeting') Mr. Workaholic's words still ring clear in my ears as I remember him attempting small talk in the seating area of my local bank.  Referring to the flooring company role I had recently landed at the time he scoffed 'So, are you actually planning on keeping this job then?' At the time I was so shocked and taken aback by what he had said that I simply brushed it off icily and said something like 'Of course' but secretly I was completely blown away by his arrogance and sheer uncompasionate nature, given the fact that we had sent nearly two years of highs and lows together, you would think he would be more thoughtful of what was coming out of the hole in his face. Maybe not though! However it is not this Ex that plays on my mind as much lately. Following a date night with Miss Chocolate and and old college friend, Miss Tatts,  of ours a few weeks ago my first serious boyfriend has been popping up more often than usual. As we all bumbled down the residential street towards Miss Tatts house we passed a familiar driveway. Upon closer inspection I noticed a copper haired gentleman in the driver's seat of a learner vehicle. Chills sparkled up my spine as I realised I had just seen my first love in nearly four years.
 
I suppose we all have a love boxed up inside us labelled 'The One That Got Away' and for me that was my first serious relationship with Mr. Ginge. Now, Mr. Ginge arrived on the scene shortly after I finished attending High School with Mr. Coffee and Mr. Woof; and long, long before Mr. Workaholic. We met rather conventionally though Sixth Form. Childhood sweethearts you could call it. On my first day I made friends with a young chap who introduced me to all of his peers. Amongst the misfits and outcasts was Mr. Ginge. Taller than the rest at about 6ft something and with fiery red hair he was hard to miss. At the time I was unusually shy and when it came to our first encounter Mr. Ginger made sure I wouldn't forget him. Thinking I was cool a few days into term, I handed round a note pad for everyone to sign their mobile numbers and e-mail addresses so as to contact them outside of the study hours. But when it came to Mr. Ginge's turn he disregarded my simple blue Biro he took out a massive black marker pen and began to write his details in the rest of the book, using up a page for a single, scrawled letter. Smiling and acting coy we flirted for a week or two both inside and outside of the school gates. Looking back I can see that he boyish pokes, jokes and hitting was just a bad attempt at flirting and an excuse to touch me. Men, eh?
 
On the eve of my 17th birthday we began chatting via E-mail. Mr. Ginge had just got in from doing Cadet's training to be in the Army and was tired but had something to tell me. As my eyes scanned the laptop screen that evening I read over and over how this handsome lad that I had only know for less than three weeks was telling me how beautiful I was and how he loved to hear me laugh. "I love your cuddles," he typed continuing with "your eyes are something magical too." Flattered and still in slight shock he asked me to be his girlfriend. Cockily I said that if he had the balls to do it in person I would oblige and so he vowed that tomorrow on my 17th birthday he would ask me out. Less than 12 hours later were standing on opposite ends of the court-yard at Sixth Form avoiding each other completely and discussing what to do with friends. Finally after a whilst our friends forced us into a quieter area together and then scurried round the corner to hear what was going on. With me hiding behind a fan of birthday cards and Mr. Ginge chewing on the end of a yogurt sachet, he made the proposal again. within moments of me saying 'yes' we had all our friends rallying around us congratulating and asking for kisses and weirdly pictures of the newly 'wed' couple. Following that happy moment came more than a years worth of terrible times in my life, all of which Mr. Ginge stuck by me. I think its safe to say that there were more low's than high's and he could have easily ran a mile at the first whiff of trouble. But he didn't. He stayed with me and made life bearable. Some of my brightest moments I shared with that man and I can honestly say that there will always be a place in my heart for him.
 
However all was not well in paradise and after transferring to College in mid-September we hit a rough patch. Mr. Ginge and I went from seeing each other every day to barely seeing each other once a week and it took its toll. After a while I wondered weather this was it. Was Mr. Ginge 'The One'? Was he the man I was destine to grow old with and start a family? Was this all life had to offer? After a year and a month I called an end to mine and Mr. Ginge's relationship. He was devastated and completely at a loss with heart-break. Ironically I was to undergo the exact same treatment less than three years later with Mr. Workaholic. Like me I never fully explained myself before calling it off and like Mr. Workaholic, wanted to see if there was more to life than just that. Sadly I think that that initial first experience with Mr. Ginge made my separation from Mr. Workaholic all the more harder. I knew that this was something that Mr. Workaholic had to do in order to live life in a way that would not have been possible given our relationship, but ultimately that decision is one I hope he both regrets and looks back on as I do with my relationship with Mr. Ginge.
 
A part of me wonders weather Mr. Ginge thinks about me as I think about him. Does he wonder what I am doing? Does he think about what I do? Does he reflect on the memories we shared? I do. I sometimes contemplate what life would be like now if we had stayed together. Would we have moved away together to university? And would we have built the foundations of life yet? All these things I shall never know. So maybe I learnt the heard way that the grass might not always be greener on the other side ...

'Til next time, Love A.Lou xx