On heartbreak

No jokes this week, sorry.

Ooof. Pride comes before a fall. A couple of weeks ago, I wrote a piece about my road trip across Europe last month with my boyfriend and Dennis which ended like this:

‘On our last evening, as I lay on the grass with my book, Paul emerged from the hotel with Dennis and they ran towards me. “A year ago, I didn’t have either of you,” I thought, “and now I have both.”’

I don’t mean to sound smug because I know how quickly life can change - for good or bad. But right then, listening to the crickets, it was pretty magical.’

And then, last week, life did change quickly and I found myself single again.

I’ve ummed and aahed over whether to write about this today. This is supposed to be the place for jokes and funny observations about hair and telly. It’s not supposed to lower the tone on a Tuesday morning. But right now I’m so sad, and trying to make sense of something that I can’t make sense of, and maybe I shouldn’t even try, and I can’t face any observations about telly.

I’d forgotten the questioning that come with a break-up. What did I do? When did it start changing? Why didn’t I see it? Could I have done something differently on that day? Or that day? Should I have done more? Or less? Is he OK? When did he decide? Was it Dennis? Did Dennis throw us off-kilter? I’m paranoid that it was because of the timing, and I know puppies are hard work. But I can’t bear it if it was Dennis. Why wasn’t I enough? I know the answers to most of these are irrelevant now, and some of the questions aren’t valid in the first place but, still, my brain is a hamster wheel.

I’ve blindsided someone before in the same way. It’s such a sudden, brutal thing to do. But of course there isn’t really any good time to break up with someone and it’s not the law (sadly) that feelings have to stay the same. And as someone wise said to me a few days ago, you’ve had a happy year, so take that - that’s a win. And this is true - it has been happy year of love and hidden notes in my bathroom, and whispered things on the sofa, and laughing, and discovering, and the towpath, and going away, and lying in bed next to one another reading, and walking and talking and planning a life together and knowing that he was my person. I started thinking maybe I could have a baby with someone I loved so much. It has been really, madly, wildly happy.

And now it’s not. Now it’s pretty grim. I spent all of Thursday, literally all of Thursday, crying at home. I cried on the phone to every single member of my family. I cried to multiple friends. When the plumber came to check my shower, I cried over him (‘Everything happens for a reason,’ said Drew). When Daniela the cleaner arrived (please, no class-war snark about having a cleaner today), I cried over her and apologised, and then she went downstairs while I retreated into my room.

‘Sophia!’ she called, a few moments later from the kitchen, so I stuck my head around the corner. ‘Sophia, I think it is best if you…’ And I paused crying for a moment and thought, ‘Great! Some Brazilian wisdom from a wise elder about break ups and how to move forwards in life!’

‘I think it is best if you get a new hoover,’ Daniela shouted, which at least stopped the tears for a while because we then debated which hoover (Henry is the best, Daniela says, but what I’m thinking is: do I really want a hoover with a bag on top of a break up?).

I promised myself I wouldn’t smoke and then marched to the closest newsagent and bought a packet. This will only last a few weeks, I know. It’s just for this bit. On the upside, I’ve stopped drinking because that was making me even lower. One wonderful friend instructed me to get some melatonin; another one procured some for me. Yet another bought my a bag of magnesium salts for my bath (‘stress depletes magnesium so you need at least two baths with this a week’), plus a book of Edwardian ghost stories - Ghost Stories by MR James - because her theory is that you cannot be heartbroken and terrified at the same time. I know this is going to sound extremely trite but people are amazing.

I tell you what’s helped most of all. Oh my god, this has been extraordinary. On Saturday morning, as I walked around a field near my sister’s house in Kent, I posted a story on Instagram saying I was broken-hearted and struggling. It felt quite self-indulgent. I’m not fighting a war; I’m just going through a break-up. But I did it anyway.

And then I spent the weekend being unbelievably touched and comforted by the number of responses and kindness. Really, I was overwhelmed. Hundreds and hundreds of replies. If you were one of the people who sent something and I haven’t replied, it’s not because I’m ungrateful or I don’t want to! It was simply that so many people have sent so many very, very generous and kind messages that I’m still going through them. Social media can be put to good use, sometimes! I also keep going back to two messages particular, from two different people, which I’m including here in case you’re going through something similar.

So thank you to everyone who’s messaged because it truly has made the world of difference. It’s made the first few days bearable. As have my have my family and pals. And also Dennis, who has been (and I know this will sound MAD to those without dogs) my saviour. On Thursday, as I smoked and sobbed in the garden, he kept bounding over and dropping tennis balls on my feet, as if they were little presents.

I also keep thinking about another piece I wrote, towards the end of last year for The Times. It was about dating, or at least about a high-end dating agency, which I was writing about at the same time as I met Paul. These were the last two paragraphs:

‘My theory remains that everyone gets their turn on the merry-go-round. You can do the apps or pay big money for matchmaking agencies. You can ask friends to set you up or hang around in bars, looking for hands without wedding rings. As a wise friend once told me, ‘The thing about dating is that it’s hell, until one day it isn’t.’ I’ve believed that for many years, reiterating to myself that my turn will come, as I go to wedding after wedding. It might not be tomorrow, or next year, or even in the next five years, but at some point, I’ll fall in love again, I’ve thought many times, while mumbling through another country church rendition of I Vow To Thee My Country. 

The irony is, of course, is that now I have. A few weeks after going to the Bond headquarters in the rain, I went for a walk along a north London towpath with the first man I’d messaged for some time on Hinge. And a week after our walk, we had dinner. And a few days after our dinner, he came to stay with me. The following morning, he put up my new coat rack (not a euphemism), where he now slings his coat every time he comes over. It’s taken me by surprise in the way that falling in love often does, because life suddenly feels shinier despite the gloom elsewhere, and I feel vulnerable in a way I haven’t for years. But also very lucky. Everyone gets their turn eventually. It’s just a question of when.’

I’ve cried thinking about this piece over the past few days, and I just cried (again, Jesus Christ) reading it back. But it still remains my theory: everyone gets their turn, and this was mine, or ours, for a spell. And the good thing about turns is that they come back round again. It’s just a question of time. Until then, well, there’s a reason I named this newsletter Onwards and Sideways.

(Jokes will return next week xxx)

(Any advice on hoovers?)