the still point

I wanted to set it down. Not to glory in the intricacies of its horror, but to understand it better and finally see it on the outside of myself. Perhaps it will help you understand your own crash and burn.

He was not my first abusive relationship. But he was my last, of that I am certain. And in that I suppose I am grateful in a way, that I no longer have to do this.

But there are only fragments that I remember. And as I remember I write. Here is my story...

I remember now that he was grey. His colour, or the colour that surrounded him was like a newspaper print on a crumpled broadsheet; dusty and irrelevant and out of context. I wonder now that I didn’t listen to myself – trapped from this viewpoint of hindsight, I now see. But of course I can see it all from here. And I can see that I saw him, so clearly, and that it only became a footnote in my mind. I saw that he didn’t know who he was. I saw that he was fragile and afraid. And I saw his vulnerability and sweetness and I choose that instead of anything else.

I was on the top of my curve then. At least I thought I was. I was running a creative business, bringing up a beautiful boy in the wake of a financially and emotionally abusive relationship and doing a great job thanks to counselling and Cetalopram. 

No one explained to me that taking anti depressants would be like switching a light back on. I didn't even know I was in the dark, but gradually I began to laugh again, to make plans and sleep soundly. It was groundbreakingly normal and I didn't know just how beautiful that could be.

I met him on the first day of the Christmas market, having been setting up my stall since 6 am in the mild winter weather. I had worked so hard, as was so proud of what I'd done, all my creativity had found it's outlet finally and I was centred in this. Grounded and happy and single. 

My relationship with my son's dad was courteous and helpful albeit flawed. He'd actually helped me set up that day and wished me all the luck. It was as if life had plateaued out to a still point surrounded by the twinkle of frosty fairy lights and promise. Calm before the storm I think now.

I can't really say what happened on that first date without feeling wholeheartedly ashamed that I didn't get up and leave after the first drink, or the second... But I was oblivious of course. Here was a charming, intelligent man buying me drinks, flattering the hell out of me, making me laugh and finding connections to things I loved I never thought possible.

But I came away with one sentence ringing and ringing around my head that I did not heed;

'you don't know who you are'.

At the time I thought he had lost his way. So far from the colourful crowded life of bus dwelling, dreadlock wearing music and creativity to the sober life of living in a flat, working in the public sector, responsible job. I admired him for it of course, we all eventually have to grow up and contribute, but I could not shake that strangest of feelings..  I saw that he was a grey washed out shadow of himself and those words that went round and round, as if it were me saying it to him' you don't know who you are, you don't know who you are...'

Looking back on it now I wonder though, were they really meant for me?