Tuesday, 18 November 2014


In my wallet is an A4 piece of paper. I haven't looked at it for a long time, but I know what it is, where it is, and what is looks like.

I wrote on it shortly after I separated from my ex husband. I had spent a long time compromising so he could have what he claimed he needed to be happy (spoiler alert: it didn't work) and I had no idea what I wanted any more.

So I did what any rational person would do. I wrote a list. A list of things I need and want. At the time, it was astronomical. No man could ever attain such heights!

Then I got my life in order (well, it's a work in progress), started writing here and, nine months after I separated from my husband I revisited that list.

I was so angry at myself when I read it that I wrote a Josh Groban related post mocking myself for my exceptionally low standards. Standards so low that someone I've never met can perfectly fit them. Because they were, all of them, the bare minimum anyone would expect from a boyfriend.

I won't look at that list right now, but I'm keeping it. I'm  keeping it to remind myself how much you can lose when you start living for someone else. I'm keeping it to prove that I'm not unreasonable or asking for the world. I'm keeping it as a talisman against all those little voices inside that say I'm not the right stuff for happiness. I'm keeping it to prove that if a man can't meet that list then it's pretty clear the fault doesn't lie with me.

Right now I have other problems. One in particular is messing with my head, but I don't want to talk about it. I'm afraid someone might read it. I'm even afraid to write fiction around it through fear that someone might understand it.

And yet, I've been wracking my brains for one friend who is distant and impartial enough for me to confide in and receive advice that I can trust won't be coloured by circumstance. I think I'm going to call my therapist.

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