Once I’ve had a week to recover, I’ll be embarking on the trip of a lifetime to the Sahara desert for yet even more time out. Nothing is expected of me other than to absorb the local culture and the welcoming rays of the sun. Those twelve hour nightshifts I’ve been doing recently have left my skin alabaster white; funny how they didn’t mention that in the contract.

A few months ago I had a full time, albeit shitty job. To the detriment of my bank balance, I took on a temporary, part time job someplace else and said goodbye to working in an environment that was slowly eviscerating me to death; I think it got my brain first. I truly try and live my life without regrets (even when I had that dodgy perm some years back, I didn’t regret it – I just burned all photographic evidence it ever happened.) Yet even now, I can feel the beginnings of regret pulling at my consciousness. Or perhaps that’s just me pulling at my hair.

And after I’ve de-stressed in the desert, its back to – well, nothing. I took on my last job in the knowledge that come January, it’d could quite possibly be no more; it was. A Christmas temp is only useful for the Christmas period after all. For the first time in ten years I will have no reason to get up in the mornings other than to have breakfast. Or perhaps brunch if I so choose.

I’m fucking bricking it. I should visit a building site to offload.

Why did I do it? Give up my routine of working for a pittance when I have nothing to fall back on in case it all goes tits up? Rent still needs to be paid. Food still needs to be bought. Life still goes on.

There is no safety net. I have no other half and no sane members of family to fall back on unless I want to be sucked down with them.

Is this what it is to finally become an adult; to have the sudden realisation of finding yourself alone and knowing you only have yourself to rely on? I’ve been faking it all these years.

A reckless part of me wants to give up work entirely. Sell all my possessions and just head for the open road. I wouldn’t work for money – I’d work for food, for a roof over my head. I’d work not for a living but to live. And when I question these reckless thoughts further, they become rational.

Why do I need money? To live in a society I feel completely at odds with? For twelve hours every day, I’ve been replenishing over-priced crap that people feel compelled to buy with the money they’ve probably just earned working tooth and nail for. It’s a vicious circle. I don’t need money for any other reason than to exist.

And if I want to live, the only thing I need to work for is life. Money can go kiss my ass.

I suppose I’ll be seeing you all down the job centre then, yeah?

*The post originally read: “four days from now” but my ISP has decided to block me from accessing the server this site is hosted on, hence why I’ve only just been able to post it now after realising why nothing was loading for me. As it is I’m using a proxy to post this. Sigh.

You all know by now that 2010 saw the end of my relationship with the ex – despite being a messy and life changing start to last year, I now find myself feeling quite apathetic to the whole sorry tale. Sure, it ended and I was forced to re-evaluate what exactly it was I wanted. But if truth be told, I didn’t have to re-evaluate, I merely had to evaluate for the first time.

It’s so easy to continually exist in a relationship without ever being aware of what it is you want. It’s called being comfortable, it’s called not rocking the boat – it’s called complacency. I am a master at it, not because I don’t have dreams or aspirations of my own, but because for a good few many years I honestly believed I never deserved any of them.

Instead of working towards what I wanted, I stuck my heels in and fought for what I already had. That was enough, wasn’t it? Anything more and I would have felt greedy.

And I’m not greedy, simply selfish.

So as soon as I had nothing to hold on to anymore, no relationship to feel stable in, I grabbed onto anything I could. I tried everything it was I wanted, or thought I wanted. I was no longer selfish; I was more than happy to share myself and my feelings with as many people as I could – but I became greedy.

I wanted more; I needed more, until I no longer recognised myself. I was changing into a person I’d never considered before.

There is nothing wrong with getting what you want, but when it starts to encroach on the lives of others, it’s not healthy, for you or them.

And so the beginning of 2010 saw me lose everything I thought I needed; the middle saw me take everything I thought I wanted and the end found me neither taking, or giving, but rather throwing myself into exhaustion so I simply didn’t have to think anymore.

2011 promises to be a year full of realised dreams, and about giving just as much as taking. If 2010 taught me one thing, it’s that equilibrium comes only from trying new things, by finding out what fits and more importantly, what doesn’t, for never settling for less than you deserve and always being thankful for what you have – even if it’s just a warm bed at night.

Fuck sharing it with someone, I have myself – and for now, that is enough.

I told my colleague the other day I actually hugged a pillow in bed one night not so long ago. But not only that, I laid the pillow out on what would have been his side of the bed and put my arm round it whilst lying on my side, just to emulate the spoon position.

“You’re breaking my heart,” was my colleague’s only response when I told him what I’d done.

At the time I didn’t think of the practice as something to pity, but after doing it for the third night in a row, I threw that fucking pillow on the floor in frustration. And disgust.

Yes, I can hug a pillow and pretend it’s a nice, warm pliable body instead a cold, cotton stuffed piece of crap. But can it hug me back? Can it fuck. And that’s what I hate. I missed being hugged.

Suggestions please.

Hug donations kindly welcomed.

There are some things you don’t miss about relationships, and for me, that is one of them.

Still, because we live within walking distance of each other, we decided to meet up for a breakfast birthday coffee. I couldn’t exactly come empty handed (and carrying a soggy umbrella doesn’t count either) – so the day before I went in pursuit of purchasing him a birthday card.

Seriously, have you ever tried to find a suitable card for an ex? It’s impossible.

No, I don’t love him. He’s not the world’s perfect boyfriend. He’s not my gorgeous fiancé. He’s not the “someone special in my life” either. Similarly, he’s not a dear friend. He’s not my shining light, or my best bud.

Boyfriends; Fiancés; Husbands; Best Friends – No, no, no and NO! He was neither of these things; perhaps once upon a time, but certainly not now. I continued looking around. I saw a section for everything else EXCEPT exes.

Well obviously! I hear you cry – they are exes for a reason.

But what if you’re still on friendly terms with your ex? And by friendly I mean you no longer have the urge to throw a brick at their head. What sort of card do you get them then?

That’s when I saw it.

The HUMOUR section.

Perfect.

I sidled over and picked out a few that caught my eye.

Terrible, just terrible.

Everything was either humorous stuff for couples or so god damn silly, if I gave him the card he’d have smiled painfully and issued up a silent prayer of thanks that he was no longer stuck with me for the rest of his life.

The lack of choice got me thinking – there is an untapped market for cards relating to ex partners!

Just imagine the fun that could be had. I began imagining such cards existing.

To my ex, I slept with your best friend – HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

To my ex, the only thing big about you was your ego – HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

To my ex, I slept with your Dad – HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

To my ex, You’re a cunt – HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

The possibilities were endless.

Unfortunately, this is the real world. And my only choices were between a carrot in a wig or a card depicting an easily frustrated IT guy.

Well, you can probably guess which one I went for.

That’s procrastination at its most basic.

I can’t write about my trip to Rome, it simply won’t flow. In fact the only thing that did flow in Rome was the wine and the tears. The tears first obviously, then I soaked them up with the wine.

You see, I should have experienced Rome with the ex. It was supposed to be our romantic holiday in the eternal city – the place for love. But that was ballsed up earlier in the year when our relationship ended. So instead of forgoing the holiday, I went anyway. All by myself. The person who is crap at reading maps; who used to leave all the finer details of sorting a holiday out, to the ex.

I never even made an itinerary of things to do for whilst I was out there, because all the months leading up to the holiday, I was simply blocking it out. Delaying the inevitable, ignoring my last link to the ex – because I didn’t want to have to think about him. I couldn’t. So everyday I was out there, after consuming far too many pastries and cups of coffee than is perhaps socially acceptable and physically possible, I left the hotel complete with a bottle of water, a map,  my camera and a notebook.

And I walked, not looking at my map once.

I walked wherever my feet would take me. I didn’t stop. I saw everything. I tried everything I wanted to try. I drank everything I wanted to drink. I ate everything I wanted to eat; sometimes I even ate things I wasn’t expecting when my Italian didn’t come out as intended. I sat where I wanted to sit. I spoke to whoever and whomever I wished to speak to. I smiled whenever I found something worth smiling about. And I enjoyed and hated my time there in equal measures.

Enjoyed, because I was free to do whatever the hell I pleased. If I wanted to get ice-cream at three in the morning, I could. If I wanted to waste an hour at the colosseum staring at it in all its weathered glory, I could – and did. Enjoyed, because instead of running away at the thought of going on holiday alone, I embraced it. Perhaps I didn’t make the most of every moment I spent there, but I lived through every moment.

Hated… well, I was alone. Don’t get me wrong, I love my own company. I can spend many a day by myself people watching, happily eating in a restaurant by myself – even smiling to myself. But knowing that there should have been another person with me when there clearly wasn’t – that I did not enjoy. Not at all. It started at the airport when I had to check in.

PERSON MISSING.

It continued on the flight.

PERSON MISSING.

Empty seat.

It continued checking into the hotel.

PERSON MISSING.

Yes, I’m sure there isn’t someone else checking in. No, they won’t be arriving later. No, it’s just me now.

Just me.

Me.

Single.

Singular.

No we, no us, just me. Me. Me. Me.

A double bed – a hotel suite, far too big for one person, especially one as short as me. And after closing the door to my suite, I pushed my suitcase into the corner of the room, took off my red jacket – and filled the silence with huge, I’m-feeling-very-sorry-for-myself sobs. I cried. I sat slap bang in the middle of that big bed, and I let it all out. Months and months of pretending I didn’t care about my relationship ending leaked its way down my cheeks. It ruined my mascara, but I didn’t care. No one could see me.

And then I stopped crying. I washed my face – reapplied my mascara, even added some lipstick. I took my camera, my map, my notebook, my key card and I walked. And for the next seven days, I didn’t stop walking. I mean obviously I came back to the hotel in the evenings and slept, but I walked everywhere. All the time. I was walking off the last four years, definitely the last four months – and especially those last four croissants I had for breakfast.

I’ve tried writing about the things I saw whilst over there, about the things that happened to me, I really have; but what’s the point? A guidebook could tell you better than I could. Besides, that’s what photos are for, aren’t they? I bought a camera for that exact purpose. To prove that I could go out there and do something I didn’t really want to do. Not visit Rome, no, that I did want. But I didn’t want to acknowledge how much I had been hurt. I’d been surrounded by people for so long, housemates, work colleagues, friends… and now, without that support around me, I was exposed.

The truth is, I couldn’t tell you what I saw. I didn’t see anything there except the end of my relationship. And no one wants to see that.

But apart from that I’ve been fine. I’ve gone to work, I’ve taken up a new hobby (learning to drive) I’ve spent time aplenty with my bestest friend in the whole wide world and I’ve actually enjoyed watching Matt Smith play Doctor Who.

I’ve bonded with my new housemates over a pot of tea and several funny stories; I’ve enjoyed a BBQ or two. I’ve been off my face, I’ve stayed in and read until my eyesight has blurred. I’ve cooked, I’ve been out to dinner, I’ve starved, I’ve been shopping, I’ve saved, I’ve been ill – but most of all, I’ve done exactly as I wanted.

I’ve been to the gym, I’ve sweated and cursed and soldered on. I’ve walked, I’ve watched, I’ve eaten and wrote. I’ve cried, I’ve laughed and I’ve felt. I’ve listened to music, I’ve thought, I’ve gone blank, I’ve visited family, I’ve loved and more often than not, I’ve hated.

Which will explain why I’ve barely been online the past couple of months. I’ve been busy rebuilding what is essentially my soul.

I’m not there yet, but I know I will be. The fact I’m writing in my blog again means I’m one step closer to being myself. Not because it’s what I used to do before the shit hit the relationship fan, but because the ability to express myself with words is slowly returning.

I cannot put into words what I’ve been through the past few months but I hope one day soon I’ll be able to.

Anyway – I have a new design, not to mention a new domain name. It’s actually not finished yet. I still have lots of little things to add. It’s far too plain. But I’m fed up with not having a blog to write in, so it was either this or nothing at all. The concept of the design is based around lots of life affirming situations – things which have made me into the person I am now. The location (W5) is where I grew up in London and not my current location; although it’s not far off.

Not much else to say except I don’t have time to maintain my own CMS anymore, so I’ve opted for using WordPress – so far so good.