This year, the sweet smell of the lily caught me by surprise: It’s already been four month since, with barely more warning time than a tsunami, my partner T announced that our relationship was over and that he was moving out of the family home. In reaction to the destruction, I felt the urge to do something creative, and because I am useless at knitting, or pottery, I started this blog.
A season has passed, and the reasons why T left remain nebulous at best. I can sort of accept that he initially exploded in the way a human pressure cooker would, unable to vent frustrations accumulated for too long. That he may have needed to go away to clear his head, to find himself, or to solve the great mysteries of universal expansion…
But what I cannot accept, is the fact that he is still not giving us a chance to talk, to at least try to understand how we got to where we are, and what could be done differently. What will we tell the children in ten years? That their family was broken on a whim, without so much as an attempt to fix it? Call me old-fashioned but I cannot resolve myself to surrendering without having so much as a chance to fight.
Meanwhile, the blog has turned out to be more than my
pathetic personal take on a somehow banal predicament. I discovered blog-hopping, and ever the scientist investigated how other broken hearts got to bleed, sometimes putting healing words on the mess inside my head, sometimes forging unexpected virtual links.
Along the way, I also learnt to ignore those who seem to live in Teletubbies land: The I-read-the-bible-and-Jesus-saved-me, or everything-happens-for-a-purpose-you-just have-to be-positive types. In fact, I sometimes wonder what these people have been smoking (the carpet?).
Aaah, a little European bout of negativity, how refreshing…