Buckle up – I haven’t written for the best part of six months.
Scratch that – I haven’t finished writing anything for the best part of six months. But when life gives you lemons – IE two hours sitting in Prague airport waiting for your girlfriends to arrive on a veeeery delayed flight – it’s easy to get lost in your own thoughts. And then think ‘I may as well make this couple of hours as productive as possible’.
So here I am, 10:25pm on a Friday evening in a rather lifeless airport (even the bar is shut) making sense of what’s going on up there by writing it all down here.
It’s a long one, but we’ve got the best part of 2023 to cover. A lot has happened, both good and bad, planned and spontaneous, opportunistic and challenging. What you’re about to read isn’t very eloquent. I don’t know that it’s very entertaining, either. But it’s all very true. And with that, I hope, relatable.
We’ll start at the start, which I penned in late April.
The £150 date
A confession: after explicitly promising myself I wouldn’t date again during the Six Nations (because historically, any situationship that starts whilst men in white throw around their beloved egg is yet to end well for me), where did I find myself back in February? Dating. Naturally. As England were being trounced by France, I was doing it all. Over. Again.
There was the full-of-beans first date where you’re your best self and nothing but your best self. Who cares if it’s 11pm on a Wednesday, you’re having another beer whilst you tell your life story for the 3,651st first date (still prone to slight exaggeration).
Then there was the optimistic second date, where you’re ready to delve a little deeper into those jokes-but-not-jokes that were said on date one, giving you an insight into what makes that person tick. (Oh, and there’s also the pre-second date panic of I hope I wasn’t actually wearing beer goggles during the first date. In this case, I wasn’t – I was sat across from the same cute guy with the same friendly demeanor and same funny sense of humour as the week before.)
And then comes the third date, what modern day dating has turned into the inescapable ‘activity’. And so this evening consisted of:
Drinks
Dinner
Drinks
Tabletennis
Shots
Drinks
Dance-y bar
Drinks
Photobooth
Shots
And a taxi home at 3am. Complete with the photobooth print-out that literally reflects all of the above – hazy eyes, pink cheeks, sweaty hair and all.
I thought at the ripe old age of 26 (I’m now 27), I knew better than to mix gin with Aperol with beer with baby Guinness.
Apparently not.
Next thing, my head was in the loo whilst the guy was downstairs sorting me out some toast and a gallon of water. From what he admitted afterwards, he definitely wasn’t feeling fresh either.
Who said romance is dead?
Fast forward a fair few weeks, and I’m making the call (sending a voicenote) to say I think we should stop seeing each other. It was a rubbish message to send, one that I’d spent the majority of a 2 hour drive back to Leicester rehearsing in the car. I was really sad to send it.
Nothing ‘bad’ happened – in fact, there was a lot of ‘good’ which made the sad feel even sadder. We shared good (great) wine (if you’re reading this, have you remembered the name of that bottle yet?), good (great) conversation, good (great) laughter. Yet there was something missing.
I still can’t really put my finger on it. There was a lot I really liked about this guy. But the missing catches up with you. Both of you.
It got me wondering, will there always be something missing? Are you supposed to accept the missing and hope that something along the way tops it up? Or when it’s right, will it feel complete?
Was there something in me missing for him, which made space for something in him to be missing for me? Or was there always the tiniest void from the first sip of that very first pint?
I don’t have the answers. But I do know that disappointment in a situation like this really is the worst. For me, I’m physically weighed down, usually lying on my bed thinking NOT AGAAAAIN with some Taylor Swift on to really get the tears flowing. How about you?
Disappointment
My Mum once described heartbreak as a genuine, physical pain in your chest. I don’t think this was heartbreak, but the physical symptoms of whatever it was were in full force.
It’s the unconscious slump of your shoulders. How the corners of your mouth curve into an upside down ‘U’ which takes a great deal of strength to push back up. The unshiftable heaviness in your tummy that feels like you’re carrying a bowling ball around as you try to go about daily life. Except no-one’s scoring a strike, not even close…
I don’t deal with disappointment very well. At all. I used to be resilient, but it’s a trait I no longer recognise when I look at myself in the mirror.
The last couple of months have diminished any last trace of resilience I thought I had. Initially, I felt beaten and disappointed in myself that I was now crumbling at the smallest comment, the slightest look, the most minor inconvenience.
But now, I’m feeling lighter for it – almost accepting, though not yet fully. I feel like I’ve lost all my vulnerability, something I’ve always been really proud to wear on my sleeve. Somehow at the same time, I’m feeling more vulnerable than ever.
And it worries me. Because the amount of times I’ve admitted to close friends that I really, truly don’t know if I can put myself through the first date, second date, third date again is quite a high number. Which feels quite defeating to admit as a girl who has lived their twenties riding the high, thrill, and freedom that comes with dating.
The start of the summer
When the summer came, I went on a few dates with a guy who seemed nice. Thoughtful. Sweet. Interesting. Interested. But after a date to watch Leeds Rhinos that ended with me uncontrollably sobbing in a pub garden, it’s fair to say I pre-empted the ‘but’ that followed yet another recital of ‘I’ve had a lovely evening with you…’. Where do guys get given this script?
No matter how many times you’ve battled with the ‘but’, it doesn’t get any easier. I’d argue anyone that says it does – yes, you can listen to all the podcasts and read all the books that tell you to ‘hold your head high’ when things don’t work out. But all the advice in the world doesn’t stop the chip, chip, chipping away every ‘but’ does to you – physically and emotionally.
Your friends might tell you you’re fab. Your family might tell you you’re fab. Your work colleagues might tell you you’re fab. But it’s little consolation for how much you want that one particular person to recognise your fab-ness. And they don’t.
Even if you have a hunch that it’s coming, the but still catches you off guard.
Makes the tears sting behind your eyes.
Cuts you right. In. There.
Scar tissue from feelings is a flimsy patchwork of love and hate, hope and disappointment.
The middle of the summer
These few dates weren’t the cause, but they were a contributor to a June then spent with a very dark cloud over my head. I had reached my own limit – I was trying to date, work, maintain a social life, eat healthily, exercise, keep on top of birthdays, remember anniversaries, find time for life admin, water the plants, pay the bills (the list goes on). And I was failing. Plus, I had the small inconvenience of being told I had to leave the house I loved because my landlord needed to move back in.
If the candle had five ends, I’d burnt ten. I was at my own breaking point, literally – I had what I can only describe as the worst pain in my arse which then made my whole body hurt like it’s never hurt before. It was some sort of tennis or running injury and it made my life a misery for a good few weeks (and everyone else’s who had to hear me moan about it, watch me roll around on a ball to try and release it, hold the massage gun on it. I’m truly very sorry.)
Retrospectively, it’s obvious what then happened, happened. But at the time, I thought I was doing and dealing with what everyone else at 27 was doing and dealing with. We’re told repeatedly that we can’t do it all. Repeatedly, we ignore it. But we really can’t, and this summer showed me that.
I’m talking about this because I think both situations and both types of disappointment manifested themselves deep. First, the disappointment that something didn’t work out because it just didn’t work out. We were just two people who liked each other, but not quite enough (Six Nations admitted he’d been feeling the same as I had when he replied to my voicenote, which felt comforting).
Second, the disappointment that came after a few dates with Leeds Rhinos guy, a guy who I instantly liked, instantly found very attractive, instantly wanted to know a lot more about. Who instantly crushed me with the phrase ‘I want to be dating with purpose’ as we walked back to his car after what I thought had been a really lovely dinner date.
‘Purpose’ is a funny word. And whether I took it the right way, the wrong way, whether he said it in the right way or the wrong way, it made me question my own purpose. What impression was I giving off for someone to tell me they wanted to date with ‘purpose’?
The end of the summer
Mixing all of the first half of 2023 together, then, and I’d written my very own recipe for disaster. Cut to a Sunday afternoon phonecall in with my Dad who was bursting with excitement about the new car he’d just picked up on my behalf, and I couldn’t suppress the absolute tidal wave of tears that had built up over the last 6 months that I then burst into.
Was it a panic attack? I’m not too sure. But Dad stayed on the phone, telling me it sounded like I was hyperventilating and I needed to concentrate on breathing and that he wouldn’t leave the phone. After about 10 minutes, I managed to speak in words rather than wails and gulps of air, and I picked myself up off the floor. I told him I was leaving Leeds there and then and coming home – I didn’t mind that it was 4pm on a Sunday and I was due at work in 16 hours. In that moment, the only thing I could focus on was getting home.
I stayed with my Dad, and then I stayed with my Mum. She told me I wasn’t to go back to Leeds how I was, and despite only having my toothbrush, a t-shirt, and a pair of knickers, I gave in to acceptance.
The next few days were completely the opposite of my ‘normal’ life – I didn’t leave the house, I didn’t go for my habitual lunch walk, I didn’t do a whole lot of talking (legit), I didn’t open my work laptop, I didn’t really think.
I did do a lot of crying, a lot of sleeping, a lot of cuddling, and a lot of reading. I took refuge in the familiarity of the Harry Potter books on the shelf, and managed to while away three days doing very little apart from simply being.
But at the same time, I felt like I’d been doing everything. And when I drove back to Leeds the following weekend feeling more like myself but also less like myself, I made a promise that I wouldn’t let myself get to that place again.
Resilience
So when I think about resilience – or lack of – I think I can be fair on myself and say it’s no wonder it’s dwindling, if not least at zero. And I also recognise it’s not going to bounce back anytime soon – it’s going to be slow, it’s going to be gradual, and it’s probably something I’m going to need help with.
I’m still in the phase of feeling cross about it, cross that this characteristic I’ve been pretty used to has now completely vanished. But whilst I almost mourn a version of myself that would once be able to snap back, slap on a smile, and get on, I’m trying to get to know this version of myself. To understand her, treat her thoughtfully, and look after her with care.
Despite remaining an extrovert and retaining a (hopefully humble) amount of confidence, Gabs at 27 isn’t the Gabs she was at 21. 23. 25. But she’s got a new lease of something, perhaps calm, that she’s trying to figure out.
August – une bonne soirée
Knowing that it would be silly to chase anything romantic, and genuinely having very little interest in doing so, I’ve actually met a couple of people in this last month. When you’re not looking and all that. In my case, when you’re sat at the pub with your housemate and in walks in a little (tall) cherry (Frenchman) on top of a rather pleasant cake (pint).
I had no preconvenied ideas of he was like, apart from a handsome. French. Man. With a veeery deep French drawl, endearing English accent, and muscular arms. Arms which took me the following week on probably the most romantic date I’ve ever been on.
For the first time, I took a step back and stopped trying to be in control. I let him contact me, organise the date, check I was definitely coming.
When I arrived (he’d chosen a family-run Italian restaurant if you’re wondering), he was sat on a small outside terrace adorned with fairy lights and had already ordered a bottle of red he knew I’d enjoy. When we spoke, we just spoke with genuine interest (and some giggles as we both figured out each other’s accents). When, after sharing some breads and meats and cheeses and two HUGE slices of chocolate cake, he sat himself at the piano in the restaurant and started playing something that I can only describe as heartwrenchingly deep (it could’ve been the wine, but still), I thought ‘if only me from a couple of months ago could see me now’.
I listened. I enjoyed. And I then attempted to play ‘Stand By Me’, the one and only thing I ever learnt on the piano back in Year 6. (Should’ve left it in Year 6, too.)
Sounds delightful, eh? It was. But, there’s a twist. It was the date I’d always longed for, but it was the date I realised what I thought I wanted – IE what I thought constituted the perfect, romantic, first date/evening and what I would have previously gone home and fantasised to the ends of the earth about the new life I was about to live in a French farmhouse – isn’t actually I what I want after all.
A final muse in Prague airport
I’ve done the chasing. I’ve ridden the highs of dates that end at 3pm. I’ve done the thrill of meeting a stranger on the internet and pretending we don’t already know everything about each other before we’ve sipped our first drink.
I need comfort. I need vulnerability. I need nothing short of a person that recognises the fab-ness in me.
And if I make this promise to myself to prioritise these three things above all else, then I leave little room for disappointment.
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