A little foray into digital dating

At the end of 2022 I decided to dip my toes back into the dating pond as an experiment. Both my mother and my daughter had uttered their concern for my ever-growing collection of cats and lack of a male companion. So something had to be done, it seemed. I wasn’t really in the mood to kiss a whole bunch of frogs in order to find that solitary prince (or knight, or whatever) on a white steed. My intent was mainly to highjack the horse and flee.

My sister had a very novel idea as to where and how to start practicing socialisation – she opted to join MENSA. While it seems a clever (hahaha, pun so intended) way to meet new people, I, first of all wasn’t so sure I would pass the test, and secondly, they sound slightly too social for my liking. I can only be fun and adventurous about once a month and then I need to recover for the remainder of it. Even then, I need to start slowing down around 10pm unless I want to be broken for the next three days. This realisation struck me full in the face on 1 January this year when I, for the first time in many years, had bothered to stay awake and welcome in the New Year. I am apparently not 23 any more and I felt every one of those 43 years acutely!

Too old to start clubbing again – the flashy lights give me migraine and the kids’ newfangled music make my ears bleed – I thought the safest thing might be to sign up for a dating app. Since I am well versed with the online world of social media I thought a little foray into digital dating might be exactly what I could handle.

Trying to find the appropriate app is rather a big task in and of itself! There is so much research that needs to be done before you even sign up. What sort of people might use which app? Where are you most likely to meet like-minded people? Then, only once you are signed up, can you see exactly how far you can go before they demand money. Incidentally, it’s not very far at all. I opted for two very different applications. The one never brought forth anyone of interest. It must be a collection of the world’s ugliest, most boring men. I didn’t feel like I wanted to connect to a single one. Feel free to contact me directly if you want to know which one it is. It could also be that I’m just a bitch with unrealistic expectations?

The second one, had a few more lively males that tried to connect, although within three days I was running scared and thought that perhaps I had started this whole trying-to-meet-people-thing too soon and that I should give it another year before I try again.

Number one on the list was a sad sack. He whinged. From the first sentence he proceeded to tell me exactly how sad and sordid his life was. He didn’t have a job. He lived with friends. He didn’t have transport. It was emotionally draining from the first second. He never bothered to ask me a single question about myself. I’m not sure what he was hoping to get out of the interaction, but he wasn’t getting it from me.

Number two was a bit of a shock to the system. In his profile photos he was absolutely gorgeous! A hot Italian stallion! Each of his three photos contained a different girl which he just blurred out. Bit weird? He doesn’t waste time and after telling me how beautiful I am, wants to go for a drink. But I have to drive to where he is. Errrm, no. Then only does it occur to him to ask me what I am looking for on the app. When I say “definitely not just a bit of fun” he unmatches me and disappears straight away. It’s a good thing, I guess, because at least he was clear about what he wanted!

Then, there are all the youngsters that liked my profile. I am not rich enough to have my own little Ben10 and I am not patient enough to hand rear one for future use. I really don’t know what 19- and 20-year-olds thought I could give them, but hey, it’s very good for your ego nonetheless to think that you are still attractive to boys that could in theory be your son, or his friends! MILF status achieved! Go me!

Then, there was a guy who started chatting to me about my cats. He liked the picture I posted with my cat. But the conversation was hard going from the start. It also turned out that he lied about his age – he was ten years older than his bio stated! If I can own up to my real age, so can you, buddy!

There was also one super pretentious guy who wanted to date and astrophysicist and was only interested in my Master’s Degree and academic accolades. (Of which there are none, really!). Now, while I enjoy the mental stimulation of a lively debate as much as the next person, it is a bit exhausting to do all of the time. Cheers, guy!

Then, of course, there are the wanking fuckheads – one of whom was actually quite the expert at the unsolicited dick-pic. I had to look really closely to see what the fuck was reflecting in his sunglasses and recoiled in instant disgust when I realised what it was. I am still not sure how he managed the angle of that photo.

Ah, and then, last, but not least, the wanna-be Don Juan, who tells me in the second sentence that he is a “Dom” in the bedroom. Geez, buy me a drink first! Thanks dude, I read 50 Shades. Not quite that much kink in my cable! Also the fact that he failed to grasp that small children need adult supervision even after I explained very nicely to him that sleeping over at his place while the kids were with me was simply not an option. So clearly a winner of the IQ lottery…eye roll

All of this transpired in exactly three days. I figured I had given it a go and it clearly was not going to work out for me. I had already cancelled my subscription, when I came upon this:

Well, well, well…An intelligent man, with a sense of humour and seemingly some serious life experience. If this one is about to drag me off into a deep dark wood to murder me, at least I will be laughing until I get there!

I take this screen shot and send it to my sister saying I think we have a potential lucky winner. Little would I know that I would be the ultimate winner here!

The initial message exchanges leave me with no doubt that even if we don’t hit it off romantically, this is someone I want in my life. But we do hit if off – with a bang! I like him. My kids like him. They think he is “cool”. (I didn’t even know kids still used that term – or maybe it’s making a come-back? I can’t keep up!)

So, 2023, here I am. After five years of travelling that well-intentioned paved road to Hell and back a few times in my bare feet, I am ready to step off that path now and let the quiet stream of life wash over me with new hope. My whole being is aglow thinking that there are still good men out there, even if it means working your way through a few frogs first! I feel cautiously optimistic that St. Valentine’s ass won’t kick me in the teeth at the first bend in the road.

Saddle up cowboy, let’s ride! Off into the sunset we go…

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A little rant about bras and knickers

I went underwear shopping yesterday. I hate shopping at the best of times, and clothes shopping- URGH! All that trying on and thinking something is going to look nice, only to look into that fitting room mirror with the harsh lighting and be thoroughly disillusioned! Shopping for underwear is the absolute pits! I put it off for as long as I could, but the holes held together by perished elastic bands here and there no longer did what they were supposed to. In fact, I’ve seen sieves with fewer holes. It couldn’t be put off any longer.

Now. There are a number of pre-requisites when it comes to underwear. 1. It has to be supportive – of “the ladies”. 2. It has to be comfortable – you’re wearing it all day. 3. Since “status: single” is finally sinking in and I have to start kissing frogs again, I guess it needs to be sexy. I am sure there are couples out there who have been married for decades and still want to look attractive for each other. Whatever. It needs to make you feel good.

When a bra is pretty and lacy, you only ever find them in little A and B cups – so cute, but not helpful. Maybe C if you’re lucky. When a bra is well and truly comfortable, it is ugly as fuck. And what is with all the bloody padding? You can walk into any store anywhere and find hundreds of sexy bras, but they are all padded! I would like to categorically state here: Unless you are into the wokeness and now identify as Pamela Anderson or Dolly Parton, no boob larger than a C cup needs fucking padding! Why does the guy (it has to be a guy because no woman can be that daft) who designs bras, think larger-breasted women want to look like they are going paragliding in the bloody thing? And wires. Do not get me started on bloody underwires! No matter how carefully you wash those damn parachutes, after a couple of months those fucking wires start crawling out and digging into your softest, tenderest flesh!

I have a problem that I’m sure cannot be unique to me, but I will acknowledge that it is my problem: I like things to match. You know – top and bottom- same colours? So even if you find that unicorn bra that is sexy, comfortable and supportive, there are no matching knickers! Or even worse, I find the perfect matching set, but they don’t come in my size (normal woman size, that is!).

Of course you can go to good ol’ Woolies and buy the “cross-your-heart-grandma-bra” in the standard colours of beige and white. Now, there are some retailers who have also ventured into black and burgundy. I have lately even seen some brighter colours, but people, I don’t know who these were modelled on because no live woman is shaped that way!

Then, there are the specialsed underwear and lingerie shops where you can find sexy, comfortable underwear that fit properly. I optimistically entered just such a store. Only to walk out seven seconds later. Who in the hell can spend R500 on a single bra? And then another R300 on the matching bottoms? WTAF?

And then, as you hand your parachutes in to the cashier she looks you up and down and enquires: “Are you sure these are the correct size? We don’t exchange underwear you know.” And you bite back:”Yes Petal, I have made peace with the fact that my post-baby, stretchmark-etched, lard-arse no longer fits into size small knickers. (Only to get home and realise that the marked-down size medium is in fact labelled wrong and is actually an extra small, hence the discount!)

So after hours of trudging from shop to shop to shop (some two or three times) I came away just about R2000 poorer! I bought some pretty, but uncomfortable bras, some comfortable and butt-ugly bras, some bras with wires and some bras with padding. Some even had both padding and wires, just in case I decide to go hot air ballooning ! I had no intention of repeating this exercise in a hurry, so I might have gone overboard. But still, not a single one of the bras I bought, matched all three criteria above.

This is just another example of men having it easier: boxers or jockeys? If that fails, owell, commando it is!

At least I have a short reprieve before the wires start digging into my ribs, or the padding starts looking like pockmarked cheese.

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On the other side of the fence

So on Sunday past, my nearly-ten-year-old daughter and the reason I started this blog ten years ago, competed in her first horse show! It felt rather strange to be on the ground, giving advice but having to let her go and rider her own ride. As I walked around with her “clear round” rosetter, haning from my pocket, I felt immensely proud of how far she had progressed over the last six months.

I also found myself with rather a lot of time to watch (and criticize, albeit only in my mind).

It was only a little fun show at the yard where she rides, and she did a pole-on-the-ground and 30cm competition, but as soon as she did that clear round and the possibility of a jump-off became real, I could feel myself transforming and becoming competitive. It would be so easy to become one of those parents, it was quite scary! I was telling her how to cut the corners to make up time, but to make sure she didn’t miss the actual jump. I myself haven’t jumped anything higher than my knee in years, but I could feel it all coming back.

The pony she rides is one of those literally-worth-their-weight-in-gold children’s ponies. She is a patient, steady little creature, with just enough life to give a child confidence without being scary. She takes her job seriously and takes good care of her little riders. She deserves a special prize as she carried three little riders through the two classes. At the same time, unlike so many other riding school ponies, she is not dead inside and shut off, which makes my little-working-in-welfare-heart very happy! I am not sure how I would have handled the situation if she ended up riding one of those poor horses.

While I do realise that everyone has to start somewhere, it upsets me immensely when I see ponies (or horses) dutifully but dully, trotting round the arena with floppy lumps on their backs, yanking at their mouths. And this where things become tricky, because as I stood watching, I just realised all over again that the epitome of horse ignorant abuse/ neglect does not happen in the top echelons of the sport. While I see a lot of overt abuse and neglect related to poverty, sadly, the highest percentage of abuse that happens because of ignorance, happens in amateur horse sport. People who ride “just for fun” or ironically, “for the love of horses”.

As I stand on the sideline, I see sad horse after lame horse after badly ridden horse come in and do their round. I see riders that are too heavy for the horses they are riding, but since everyone is getting offended these days, no-one will dare say anything to them despite the fact that they are not only too heavy, but they ride quite badly too, compounding the abuse even further! It pains me deeply to hear things like: “Oh, he is just a grumpy horse” or “oh, that’s just the way she is, she has never liked her girth done up” or “she always gives a buck”. We as riders have over the hundreds of years normalised these things and it is up to us as riders and horse people to now denormalise it. None of these things are normal in a well-trained, pain-free horse! They are just NOT. NORMAL.

We are so quick to anthropomorphize behaviour that we sometimes ignore the fact that horses are horses. Horses are not people. Horses do not think like people. Horses do not act like people. Horses are horses and they act like horses. It is our responsibility to learn how horses act and when they start acting like “naughty” horses, it is up to us to figure out what is the cause of their discomfort or pain. You really do not have to spend a lot of time around horses to realise that they will try their hardest despite being in pain. They do not stand around in their paddock planning and strategising how to get rid of their rider. When they act out, they are already in severe pain or extremely terrified. For the most part, they will just bear it as best they can.

We know a lot more now than we did thirty years ago about the importance of saddle fit and the action of bits and nosebands. We have the whole of google with which to educate ourselves and there really is no excuse. This is relevant to any sort of animal behaviour and training and not only to horses. It is vitally important to be open to the truth and not simply set out to find something that will fit in with what you already believe.

While we believe we know everything, we will never learn anything.

Posted in Animal welfare, Horses, Mommybeing | Tagged , , , | 1 Comment

Horses just fix everything!

A month ago I went to see my drug pusher – aka The Psychiatrist. He was so worried about my mental state of unwell-being that he summarily booked me off for the rest of the week, doubled my don’t-kill-yourself-drugs and threatened to put me in the clinic (or as my brother calls it, the mind holiday place – I quite like that!).

If you’ve been following this blog, you will know that through the last ten years, there has been one central theme – horses. There is a reason for that. Horses are great! But more than that, I have been horse-mad for as long as I can remember. No matter how many people hoped it was “just a phase” it wasn’t. When I had to sell my horse three and a half years ago – the same horse I gave up on my marriage for – I lost the greatest part of my identity.

Just over two years ago, in a desperate attempt to claw myself back towards myself, I jokingly asked an old acquaintance if she had a horse for me to ride. To my surprise, she said she did! I have been riding for her, doing competitive trial riding for the last two years and she has grown into a very dear friend. In fact, I have made a whole bunch of dear friends and reconnected with some old ones along the way too.

This past weekend, we had a big event – our National Championships. I had been looking forward to this weekend almost all year. I booked leave months in advance and counted the weeks as they dragged by. The weekend did not disappoint! We camped under a lane of eucalyptus trees that provided anchorage from the howling wind on night one and shade from the harsh West Coast sun for the rest of the weekend. The only thing missing was my daughter. I really missed her as I listened to the other kids playing – proper playing – stick fights and building forts with tree branches and a gazebo tent.

I rode 44km in total over the weekend on my stunning little borrowed horse that I only get to ride once every two weeks. She held up beautifully and had good, low heart rates. The last day started with a bit of a disaster as the third person of our trio woke up with severe stomach cramps. We messed it up further by having such a blast on our ride, that we missed an arrow and skipped the last kilometer of our first leg. Hence we were disqualified – purely due to human error and our horses were still fresh and ready to ride another 5k’s! We were sorely disappointed for sure, but in the greater scheme of things, it wasn’t such a biggy. Did we win? No. Did we have fun? Oh hell yes!

A few years ago I was absolutely thrilled when I did my first piaffe and a part of me is still a bit of a dressage queen, but it really doesn’t compare to this competitive trial riding. You do spend a lot of time in the saddle conditioning your horse to be able to ride over a distance at a certain speed, but you don’t spend exorbitant amounts of money, blood sweat and tears just to go into the arena for 5 minutes and be told how crap you actually are! No, you actually enjoy the sport, win or lose!

I am forever grateful that I have been granted this opportunity – it has most probably saved my life (quite literally).

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Letting in the light

I used to think that the reason I never longed for previous periods in my life, was because I had been so very good making my life better as I went along. I have made a depressing discovery that this is not the case at all…

The reason it would seem I don’t look back on my life and think :”Ah, I wish I could go back to that time.” is in fact because my life thus far has been boring and dull, punctuated by periods of pain. There has been very little joy, really. Very little actual living.

It’s not that I have had an awful life. It has just been very dull. I have managed to stay alive for 43 years by doing everything as it was expected. Never stepped out of line. Never took any chances. Always played it safe. It’s very, very sad.

I did exactly what my parents and society expected; went to school, worked hard, got good marks. Then went on to university, did not one, but three degrees, met a man, got married had kids. And then it all fell apart spectacularly. The next five years were riddled with bad decisions, but not the kind you make in order to be true to yourself. Rather, they were desperate attempts to reinvent myself, but still, without taking any significant risks. And so I continued fitting myself into frames of others’ design.

Right now, I find myself in a position where nobody really expects anything from me, and I’m feeling rather lost. Somehow I now have to try and find the dreams I never dared to dream. These are somewhat dark times, I won’t lie. I have to trust the universe that I am exactly where I need to be. I have to pause, to let in the light and hope it will lead me to where I need to be next.

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From one mountain to another and back again

Brandberg, Namibia

I have just come back from four days of hiking through the Namib. I am struggling to find the words to describe it as we tend to overuse the word “amazing”. But that is what it was I suppose: Amazing. Awesome. Incredible.

We really do need to make more time to get out into nature and away from the city and our everyday humdrum. It reminds us just how simple life could be.

There were just under 20 people on this particular trip and it was a bit “people-y” for my taste, which made me seem sullen and unapproachable to some, but right there is where “do unto others as you would like done to yourself” fails abysmally. Everyone went on that trip for their own reasons. Mine, unlike some of the others’ was not to make friends.

It was in fact the furthest thing from my mind. I went in search of absolution. Forgiveness from myself mostly; for things I had done and had allowed to be done over the past few years. I wanted to immerse myself in nature and try and remember why I was here, on earth, to begin with. Then of course, also spend some time with two of my siblings who went on the trip too. (I wouldn’t have been able to go at all if my sister hadn’t offered to pay.)

As we traipsed through the desert, shoes crunching on rock and sand, I did find some peace. Just before sunset, as the deafening silence would thunder through my ears, in the short space of time just before the geckos started barking at teach other, the beauty of that single moment would try to swallow me whole. The nights were darker and the stars brighter, the mornings somehow filled with far-off promise.

I did speak to some people and there seemed to be a recurring theme. Brandberg. It gets in their blood, they say. This mountain calls to them, making them return time and again. As the sun disappears over the Western horizon, it tints the mountain in shades of pink. Bruises it in hues of blue. The mountain seems unperturbed as the black-velvet night sky, with its thousands of pin prick stars, shifts once again to let the moon rise, bathing it in a yellow glow. Underneath the different light shows the mountain is still the mountain. Never-changing.

By day three out of four, I had finally wound down enough to relax into the rhythms Nature prescribed by which time it was almost too late. I walked slower and and slower, not because I was tired, but to make the journey last as long as possible. Still, no mind-blowing epiphany. No closer to understanding the meaning of life.

On the last morning I sit, coffee in hands, with my feet at the still-warm ashes from last night’s fire, pondering endings. Endings are sad. Heart-breakingly, gut-wrenchingly, bone-bruisingly sad. But as one thing ends, something else will always take its place.

The plane banks on approach to Cape Town International Airport. I catch a glimpse of Table Mountain, clad in a blanket of mist. It is good to be home. I am ready to begin again.

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Can someone turn the lights back on please, it’s not funny anymore!

Life, you’re a goddamn bitch, and then to collude with that bastard Murphy too! This is what I think to myself as I’m jumping up and down in the dark. Thanks to things like COVID and Eskom, life here at the southern tip of Africa is interesting, (like in Terry Pratchett interesting) if nothing else.

I don’t like going to gym. When I was a student, I did actually have gym membership for a few years. My ex-husband and I went together for a little while, but I just didn’t enjoy it. The whole circuit, weights -thing. No, just wasn’t for me. I also tried the aerobics and yoga classes for a while, which I enjoyed slightly more, but my co-ordination sometimes let me down. I would look like an idiot with a stupid look on my face, trying to figure out the fancy foot work and then just give up and wait for the next move.

I loved running. I used to run a lot. In high school, living on the Highveld, I would go for a run in the mornings before school, even in winter, my breath freezing on my eyelashes. Running, running, running in the pitch black…one foot in front of the other. It was therapeutic. Even when I lived in Scotland I would go for a run to clear my head after a hard day’s physical work. The short Scottish days in Winter did get to me – getting up in the dark, then darkness settling in again shortly after lunch, it would seem! Very much like life is now – thanks to rolling blackouts!

Even if I did like going to the gym, I couldn’t have done so during the COVID lockdowns, so the kids and I, we started going for walks instead. Just to get out of the house, really. That continues, but thanks to middle-age, I find that I need to do a little more exercise. I could still be running, but that’s off the table since I completely messed up a knee trying to run a half-marathon. So here I am, armed with a few downloaded Youtube exercise videos, exercising in my lounge, in the bloody dark! I can only imagine how ridiculous it must look – stumbling over my own feet with the only light being that from my phone screen.

And just then, I realise that the power is off. So I can’t wash my hair. Or I could, but I can’t dry it. Now, I’m trying to exercise vigorously without sweating. It’s all too ridiculous and I feel like I’m Bridget Jones or Mr Bean or someone. Come on, bring the lights back, it’s enough now!

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A new direction

I have often bemoaned the fact that although people seem to enjoy my writing, nobody enjoys it enough to pay me for it. To be honest though, except for a few small writing projects on Upwork, I don’t think that I have ever had the confidence to ask anyone to pay me for writing. Okay, there is the small matter of actually writing for my day job, but it’s not the same. Why you ask? Because I don’t get to choose what I write about and even then I don’t get to write often enough – it is really only a small part of my day job. Besides, no-one can tell me that writing annual reports is fun and expect me to believe them!

As much as I enjoy writing this blog, at times even I get bored with my winging and whining over life and how incredibly hard it is. There are limited ways to say: “I am fucked.” and I am sure you must get bored reading about how fucked I am most of the time.

So, with all that said, I have been looking at ways to allow myself to spend more time writing, about things that I want to write about while maybe, perhaps getting paid a little bit for it. I have launched a Patreon profile where I will be writing about writing. (I promise it won’t be nearly as boring as it sounds!)

The aim is to force myself to complete my first book-length project and hopefully get some meaningful feedback along the way.

So, if you have enjoyed reading at least some of my blog posts, please head on over to Patreon and become a supporter. The first five people that join will receive a copy of the completed book, no matter which level of support you choose!

For the rest of you stingy bastards that just like to read about the never-ending misery that is my life, don’t worry, I will continue to entertain you here on this blog.

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Who are you judge Johnny and Amber?

I didn’t really want to voice an opinion about this matter. And even now, I am hesitant to publish this post. But there are just things that I feel I need to say, especially since I have a little bit of personal insight.

First of all, I think it is a disgrace that two people’s private lives are being broadcast for public entertainment. Second, and more importantly, I really think people need to stop Amber-bashing. I like Johnny as much as the next person, but let’s be fair here – we like the idea of a created persona that he has put out to the public. There are very few people who can say that they know who he is in private.

I am ashamed and astounded to see my friends (whom I know can’t know the man personally) share posts on social media making Amber out to be a liar. These very same people (because I know them to be nice enough people) would hate the idea of cyber-bullying, but this is exactly what they are doing and I am appalled!

I am not a mental health professional, but I have enough personal experience to say the following: Number one: If Johnny Depp really had as traumatic an upbringing he tells us, then he more likely than not has a lot of unresolved trauma of his own that he has not dealt with – as evidenced by his drug and alcohol abuse.

Number two: If Amber Heard exaggerated the physical abuse, it is more than likely because the mental and psychological abuse is so hard to not even prove, but even to describe! Sometimes this abuse is so subtle, so little, that you yourself don’t even realise it’s happening until one day when you erupt – only to be made out as the “bad guy” or “the crazy one”.

Number three – and this is an important one people! When two emotionally dysregulated people come together in a relationship that triggers them, and neither one is able to manage their emotions properly, this is a proper recipe for domestic violence and abuse. And then there isn’t just one person that is the “good guy” and one person that is the “bad guy”. Things escalate fast and very quickly become ugly and messy and everyone is to blame.

This is not to say that there are not relationships where there is a clear victim and a clear abuser. I just don’t think this is one of those cases. And I really think people shouldn’t be so quick to make judgements!

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Trying to make sense

As usual, I write not to say anything, but more to make sense of everything. For the past week, my thoughts are like a game of Tetris. As soon as I have them all lined up and fitting together, the line disappears and all the blocks are a jumble again.

For the last two weeks, I have been an emotional wreck. Even more than usual! Two weeks ago, I decided to have my boyfriend admitted for psychiatric evaluation. It will sound cliché, but it is one of the hardest things I have ever had to do in my life. Especially because it wasn’t the first time and I knew how traumatic it had been for him before. Even harder than that, was the decision to break up with him when he was discharged. And asking him to pack up whatever life he had built here and go. I didn’t know where. He didn’t know where. All I did know was that I could no longer live with the way things were.

As it turns out, he was diagnosed with Delusional Disorder. Which was why he would continually accuse me of conspiring against him and lying to him. Which is also why he seemed to think I put him in hospital out of some sort of spite or malicious intent. Nothing could be further from the truth. I just didn’t see any other way of helping him anymore. (And still there is that little voice in the back of my head that asks: did I give up too soon? What if this time things would have been different? Since I’ve been doing it for three years and nothing really ever changed, rationally, I doubt it. But still. My heart wonders)

Things had been bad for a long time. But things had also been so good when they were good! I just don’t think I quite met the height requirements for this emotional roller coaster! People had been watching from the sidelines and many offered advice. So here are two short lists of advice that I found useful, and not so useful.


  • I understand why you are feeling sad and guilty (with no “but” following). It is absolutely how you should feel in this impossible situation.
  • Of course you can help him. What you have to decide is whether you can be the person who helps him and still cope with all the other aspects of what life asks of you.
  • I don’t know if you are making the right decision. But it doesn’t have to be a forever-decision. You can always re-evaluate it tomorrow. Make the right decision for right now and trust that tomorrow will take care of itself.

Less useful

  • You have to think of yourself first. (For whatever reason, maybe it’s just me, this did not resonate with me at all. How can I prioritise my own needs that are clearly not as great as those of somebody else?)
  • You are not his mother and he is not your responsibility. He is a grown man and should take responsibility for himself. (Only I know his brain doesn’t allow him to do that)
  • It is not your problem that he has nowhere to go and no-one to turn to. (It kinda feels like it is, though)

He has made me the enemy in his story. For the week that he was in hospital, all I could think of was how he must feel, and how it affected him. But from what little he told me when he got home, I can only deduce that he spent no time whatsoever thinking about how I felt through the whole ordeal, or even why we ended up at this point. He was unreasonable-with. For three years I had tried to reason with him like a normal thinking person, but it was simply not possible. That’s on me – thinking that everyone (or anyone even) think and reason and feel the same way I do.

It doesn’t make my heart less shattered. It doesn’t make me any any less gutted at how things turned out. I cry over everything that was. I mourn for everything that could have been; maybe even should have been…

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