Moving on

Moving on

Moving on

LTME-postSo, the happy ending is approaching?

Reading my diary after many years, I think I need to say “Thank you, Jörg, for pounding a sack of true Swiss meat for over a year.” Quickly re-experiencing those moments of fear, depression and helplessness it seems all has started turning for the better with the passing years when gaining distance from my now officially and unofficially ex-boyfriend. I mean I wrote at the age of 26 how I wished to leave him, but I couldn’t. I can comprehend today the why and that only points out the genius and craziness within me. The laugh of today, the irony of my bitchy day is that I am extremely loving person. I should emphasise that point next time I write an insulting message to my ex-husband’s, present, a big nose girlfriend.

They all get a name one day. Years before they don’t even exist as a thought or a belief in your ideal happy loving passionate world that you have so dedicatedly created with the love of your life, your better half, your boyfriend, your twin soul, your other half and one day your husband. You call it a bad day or a big fight at the beginning. Then it turns into: “I have a pain here,” or “I am so tired,” but you go on. Then it turns into a week of your awful period and a vaginal trash that leads to the second week of the lost sex opportunities. Suddenly you get to know much more close and personally his family, which includes a fantastic mum, a secluded dad who stores “snaps” with dead rat in it, an overweight brother and 3 kids practising love, creativity and good social skills in Steiner school. Bills need to be paid, money needs to be earned so two of you, love birds can finally spend some quality time together… sex, food and movies. Cup is after 2, 3 years full, same routine, same fun, same sex positions. Boredom creeps in and critic replaces the before so obligatory “I love you,” and “We are special,” and the “I can’t live without you:”

It is there again, like a rumour, not sure if it’s true, but there is something about it for sure. His habit of talking on the phone till midnight or past, business first, you later, his Samaritan preposition “Go and have fun by yourself,” or “I’ve been on the road so long I only wish to stay at home and do nothing.” Your heart seems happy, hack, you hit the jackpot after all, but your mouth keeps on forming sentences like “Why haven’t you…” or “You are again….” naming and expressing all his forgotten promises and nagging habits. So you figure it out, who wants to make you feel like a goddess after a display of your dark side of the moon? Awkward minutes built up, empty lonely days stuck up, “It’s OK,” becomes a trade mark answer to the usual “How are you doing today?”

Waiting is like a thermometer for your relationship saying, “It’s not fireworks, but we are fine together.” Waiting is like saying “I am comfortable where I am,” and “I accept.” So when accepting a rough period translates into no passion, no sex for months or even years, it is getting a shape. A form with the expire date on it. So when you open it the bad smell hits you right into your face. Makes you jump back in a disgust, creating that “What the fuck is this?!?” as if it hasn’t been standing there for a while.
“It could be allergies, it could be my intolerance to dust, pollen or domestic animals,” but somehow it doesn’t hit the spot. The thinking takes you to your doctor, your therapist and on a search of lost “I feel great” moments of life. You love your sweetheart, you adore your Whinny-the-Pooh, your home is so cosy and life, oh so fantastic. You know the magic receipt, the fantastic movie or a song, the secret place, favourite holiday destination and his ultimate vision and purpose. So what could go so wrong that you couldn’t make it better?

It’s about timing, apparently. Your whole life is about time. Being at the right place, at the right time, doing the right thing. Of course, presupposing that you are the right person. So, symbolically we are standing at the train station, or more contemporarily at the airport and taking our flights. How many times we step on just because of the company and not the destination? Somehow you find yourself at the border, WAITING to get a permission to enter into a new territory. With the formulate in your hand, dutifully filled out, even the question about “Are you; single, married, divorced or a widow?” the single box is boldly ticked off, denying the existence of your marriage, your ex, your husband, your worse half, your idiot, your dork who doesn’t get it, your ultimate version of hell, the reason for standing here at all. Mind races like crazy, moments of disappointment and anger flash in front of your eyes, humiliation, despair, loneliness and minor depression are all the qualifying miles for joining the ex-wife club.

Those feelings, have become your companions, your colleagues, your day to day to do list and after all these time, those days of waiting, after hundreds “I’m fine,” and “I’m satisfied with my life,” quotes is liberating opening the bottle with the stinky smell, funny green mushrooms crawling inside the viscera of the contents, describing perfectly all those pains, Chlamydia, vaginal infections and menstrual cramps, senseless fights, arguing about his children, your parents, school, business, culture, spirituality, sex, recognition, self-image, rights and wrongs and call it “You stupid, big fat ass, 23 year old, with daddy complex, 15 years younger than him, with retroflexed uterus and heavy constipation, Swiss-German bitch – Patricia.”


Leave a reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *


This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.