Prune fingers & the end.

This post is going to be less planned and more of a …get the thoughts the fuck out of my head so I can sleep before my night shift.  My grammatical correctness will go to shit. 

I haven’t fully explained the relationship I have had with my American,  and I intend to because it has been such a huge part of my life the last few months.  It isn’t easy to summarise that stuff in a page.

However,  long story short for now,  it’s over.

I’m back in my flat,  still in the clothes I wore out to dinner last night.  My fingers are like wrinkly prunes from spending the last hour plodding through the washing up pile,  staring out the window at the falling snow,  wondering how I’m here again.
Wallow wallow.

We had a perfect evening of dinner, drinks and conversations fuelled by the excess of the latter.   We walked back to his flat in the freezing cold.  I’d recently bought a new bra and we’d texted the night before about how quickly it would be whipped off once we were home.  Since his knee surgery we have been less intimate,  so the promise of being close to him again was cheering us both up after a weekend apart.

But that’s not what happened.
I’d mentioned to him that things were different a few days ago and that we needed to talk about it and…gentleman that he is he chose to BEFORE the removal of clothes to be fair to us both.
I’d leave the sex out of the story (or the lack thereof),  but as any adult with a libido knows, it’s important.
So we talked…and cried…and talked some more.  We were laid top to toe on his dog chewed leather couch,  looking at each other from far enough away that we wouldn’t get distracted by the physical closeness of it.
We talked about the first month of whirlwind romance perfection,  the messages,  the promise of love and the insanity of it all.
We talked about how he pulled away,  slept with this lass in London and freaked out. How I found out and everything changed.  He finally admitted that he had been falling in love with me….which hurt so… so much. I’d almost rather not know how close we were but then…
He broke it.  Back when it was so intense I told him I was scared of being hurt again,  and begged him not to hurt me.  He did.  I suppose any relationship that starts so perfectly and intensely is bound to end in just the same pattern.
We agreed the spark from those first months was gone and not coming back,  and however much we cared for each other…we needed to stop it before we hurt each other anymore. I’m glad he made the decision for me because I wasn’t strong enough to end it.
Fuck.  It’s ended.  He ended it.

WHY couldn’t it have turned out well for once?
It’s like I have a wee shoulder demon that jumps in when I’m happy shouting ‘FUCK YOUUUUUU’.  Little bastard.  *punches wall*

I’m writing this so badly because I’m so tired.  Puffy eyes and a headache from crying.

One of the hardest thing about break ups is knowing that all the little plans are going to disappear like a puff of smoke.  The wild camping on Skye,  the fossil hunting at Robyn Hoods Bay,  the ice hockey game, the America football, the amazing sex.  I’m still clinging to the idea that we can do all of that as friends…but the reality is he will likely do it with someone else.
He’ll forget little ol’ me.
I would forget me if I were him.

I’ve spoken to my Mum this morning because I didn’t want to go on anymore.  She’s my wise owl and always brings me out of the cloud.  It sounds melodramatic but the last year/ few years have been a relentless attack on my strength,  self esteem and ability to bounce back.  Sadly, recently,  I’m not bouncing back anymore.
I have so many great plans for my life but they aren’t worth anything without someone to share them with.  Yes I am a strong independent woman but I also love to Love.  I’m addicted to sharing my whole being with a person and them sharing themselves with me.

If I don’t have that,  I’m feel like my pockets are empty,  like the gems in my jewellery are missing.  What I mean is…I’m still me and enjoying life but something isn’t quite right. All my plans to be self sustainable are based on a picture with my man and a little girl running around our small holding, playing in the mud.
All my hopes for building a house are dependent on finding someone who wants to do it too,  because it’s too big a project to do alone.
All my travelling plans need someone to share the memories with.

I am a strong independent woman,  but I’d like a strong independent partner to share that with.  Does that make me weak?

Fuck.  Bed time.  Three night shifts here I come.

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