Ok so I’ve done nothing but complain about the human experience lately but let me be clear, I do realise that shit could be worse. I am, in fact, a very lucky girl. All the trials and tribulations of my twenties are just a normal part of the privileged life many of us are fortunate enough to be living.
With that in mind I’m trying to focus on the positives this week. And while all the big parts of my life are looking as bleak as the Northern Irish summer, I’m trying to find smiles in the very little things:
- Driving home from work yesterday with a view of the brightest rainbow I’ve ever seen
- Early nights (and sleep in general)
- Avocado toast
- My delectable Max Benjamin Coffee & Cardamom candle
- Puzzle books
- Clean bed sheets
- New shoes
- Fleetwood Mac
- Vogue, Harper’s Bazaar & ID magazine
- Hot chocolate
- Good eyebrows
- Dwarf hamsters. So. Fucking. Cute.
- Starry nights
- Champagne cocktails
There’s plenty to smile about (metaphorically of course – I suffer from chronic bitch face). What’s on your list?
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He text me yesterday. ‘How are you?’
A million thoughts rushed through my mind, naturally. Sadly, it’s probably meaningless. I desperately want to believe that he misses me but personal experience tells me that in reality he probably just wants to be friends. Which is heartbreaking.
His ability to make small talk with me surely means that he isn’t hurting and it devastates me to think that this is what we’ve been reduced to. After all that passion, all that lust and all that love, we end up making fucking small talk.
It took me a long time to figure out how to reply (I didn’t want to appear immature by ignoring him). My first reaction was ‘are you fucking serious?’ We lived together for two years, he knows me well enough to know exactly ‘how I am’. My second thought was to reply honestly… I have always been honest with him. He was my best friend, the person I shared my deepest feelings with. But that doesn’t seem right anymore – to give him that honesty; to bare my soul to him. I also didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing how much I’m still struggling without him. I refuse to massage his ego any more (the first strength I’ve shown in a long time). So that left me with one option, something I’d never done with him before – fake it.
I lied. I said I was ok, I kept things as brief as possible and ended the conversation as soon as possible. As difficult as it was I knew it was for the best. Honesty hasn’t done me any favours lately, so maybe I should be faking it more often? I’m sure my poor, loyal friends would welcome a break from my melancholy! If I could plaster a smile on my face and stop spending so much time in bed my parents wouldn’t be so worried…
‘Fake it ’til you make it’.
What do you think? Do I stand up tall, hold my head high and tell the world I’m A-OK? It’s a nice idea. Or is there a bravery in not pretending? In admitting that yes, I’m wounded, I’m struggling, but I’m living.
I’m just gonna play it safe and resort to some retail therapy while I figure it out.
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