** Note: link to Lady E’s post of my text has been corrected **
It’s been a while since Lady E and I have graced you with our respective views on the tortuous path of recovery from being dumped by your spouse. For each of us, 2011 has been an eventful and difficult year in its own way, but it’s a mark of our progress that we are now both spending more time looking forward than back, and considering letting new people into our lives…
Here is Lady E’s take on things (you can read mine here):
It’s been 11 months since my partner T dumped me without a parachute, eleven months since I started pouring out my despair over the internet, and eight months since my sorry path crossed with Separated Dad. Since then, we’ve been cheering each other on, watching drama unfold from afar, dabbing each others’ wounds with virtual Savlon, and comparing notes on our respective trajectories back to Life.
It’s been a bit like having a red-haired, moustachioed big brother watching out for me from across the Atlantic.
A sign of time passing and healing progressing, our recent preoccupations have shifted from undiluted sorrow and struggle to just carry on through life, to the daunting and exciting prospect of letting someone new into our hearts.
Separated Dad and I seem to broadly share the same objective of sharing our lives with someone new, but we seem to go about it at different paces and with very different mindsets.
There’s a French saying that a scalded cat fears cold water, and until recently, this pretty accurately summed up how I felt. I got burned, badly, and my fear of letting someone new into my life far outweighed any yearning for romance. T had to work pretty hard at gaining my trust in the first place, and once he was done and I felt secure and happy, he let me down in a rather spectacular fashion. This left me with a long-standing fear of abandonment compounded by experience, which is some pretty heavy luggage to carry around.
Then came Plaster Man, and his big shoulders and rugby player’s hands. It surprised me and scared me senseless, but there was no denying that perhaps my appetite for life was more powerful than the voices of fear, and that I was more ready to take the risk than I’d previously envisaged.
Still, I am a fragile version of myself for the time being, licking my wounds and bobbing up and down in the swell. Eleven months is a short time, and however much I look forward to the day when I can feel the incomparable fullness of love, and of being where I want to be with someone special, I’m not sure to be ready yet. Not with pain and anniversaries pressing on the horizon. Maybe, when this wretched year is over…
Unless perhaps Joseph Fiennes came beating down my door?