I’m lonely

This is strange. Loneliness is an emotion I’ve heard plenty about over the years but never really experienced – until now.

Until now, I’ve only ever seen loneliness as affecting pensioners living on their own, maybe single parents when their kids leave for university, that kind of thing.

But I’ve never felt lonely. It’s something I’ve always prided myself on really. Before Georgie, I’d lived on my own for about 15 years – from fleeing the nest to her moving in.

I’ve had relationships during that time, but never got the point of living together until the inevitable – it now seems – break-up.

I’ve felt alone before, yes, but I’ve always been super-independent, and I rather enjoy my own space. Usually. It means I can do what I want when I want and not have to answer to anybody – another reason I don’t want kids.

But now I’ve been single – for nine days and about 11 minutes. Not that I’m counting. And I feel this horrible loneliness – a yearning for something, someone, who I love so much and yet is now out of reach.

I didn’t want to come home this evening. I left work late and went shopping, anything but come back here.

I love my little house – it’s a fab place, oozes character and I’ve had many happy years here. Now it just feels like a massive, empty aircraft hangar. It’s so quiet – and that just means I end up thinking about where I went wrong, over and over again.

Before, at this point on a Monday, I’d be making some lovely meal for us both, using one of my many recipes. Instead, I’m doing what I used to do – and just picking up any old thing with a yellow sticker on from the supermarket.

Something cheap and cheerful. I’m avoiding the pies and crap I used to buy, though, and have gone for chicken, which is baking in the oven, and salad.

Before, the dinner would be bubbling away on the stove, Georgie would come in and tell me all about her day, what the people at her work had got up to and that sort of thing.

My work days are never that memorable, so I never really had much to say in return. If I was feeling depressed, I’d be quiet then, too. Then, at other times, I’d be hyper – usually when she was trying to sleep.

The little things affect me the most. She had this thing about the bedroom door being “closed to” – so that it was open enough for the cat to come and go – but closed enough so that the bogeyman couldn’t get her.

I noticed last night that I was still closing the door to. I told her before that I’d protect her from the bogeyman. But I didn’t told her I loved her often enough. Idiot. Idiot. Idiot.

And now she’s gone – and talking about artificial insemination to conceive, one day. I’ve nothing against that, but she needs someone to love her and hold her – not a fucking turkey baster.

She doesn’t want to end up lonely. Like me.

Andie x



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