Sven's life in Oz

I wrote a blog post about how fabulous it was to have moved into my own flat and how optimistic I was about the future and blah blah bleugh; when I read it back today it sounded so falsely enthusiastic that I was embarrassed to publish it. The move itself was ghastly and efficient and terrible and not as bad as expected and all the things that house moves always are. You never have enough time to look around and thank the walls for the great memories; before you know it you’re leaving the building by the side door and that chapter of your life is over. Then you get to the new place and unpacking your furniture brings back memories of sitting in the linen cupboard as a child, or the project you did at university, or your friend who makes little gifts from newspaper cuttings and photos you would otherwise throw away. The walls of your new place are a blank canvas and you decorate them with your life.

The truth is that I have good days and bad days. Of course I tell everyone that I am having a great time and I mean it, too. Life is good. I am constantly amazed at how lucky I am and how fabulous the world is and how even when things are the most awful and I feel I might collapse and never get up, something changes eventually and things light up again. These miniature rollercoasters help me handle the big one and give me hope that it will stop dropping like a stone and start being an enjoyable ride again sooner or later. But I stick with the “life is great” routine from day to day because it’s easy and accurate for the most part, and if I let myself wallow in trepidation and heartache I will end up going mad.

So it seems that today is an up and down day. James and I have been out shopping for things for his new flat and had a great afternoon, throwing up all kinds of confusing questions like “why didn’t we have this kind of fun when we were together?” and “am I enjoying this because we did the right thing, or because it reminds of the old days?”. Both of these can be answered with the anthropic principle but are emotionally charged nonetheless. Then there’s the part of me that says that “yes, you did the right thing because isn’t this better than being unhappy?” and I want to give that voice a megaphone and a marching band but the others are easier to hear since they form a resounding chorus in the echo chamber of my soul.

There are days, like Friday, when I love being on my own. (I haven’t really given it a chance since James is still staying with me while they finish building his new home.) I spent all day doing things for me: I went to the fruit market, bought clothes, read books, wrote letters and got a haircut. I invested a whole day in achieving nothing but my own comfort and got heaps done. In the evening I had friends over and we drank wine and went out for dinner and dancing. Then James showed up drunk and we ended up going home because I only have one set of keys and I was angry and upset and said some wicked things as a result.

If that’s an analogy for how I feel at the moment then it isn’t a fair one because James is being  conscientious and understanding despite being in an unenviable situation himself. Hell, I’d get drunk if I were him, and have done for a lot less. He goes out for a nice night, has a great time and arranges to meet me, then suffers my wrath for having the temerity to get drunk but has to put up with it since I have the doorkeys. Each of us is irrational and unreasonable and gripping the restraints till our knuckles turn white, keeping it all in check and waiting for the ride to end.

There is a light at the end of the tunnel. Next week we are both flying back to the UK for a few weeks to catch up with friends, see some of them get married, and recharge our batteries. I will certainly be taking stock of who I am, what I am doing and where I am going. Everything here is so full on and right now that a break and a rest are desperately needed and will put off the Mr. Krook episode I have coming (though even that sounds like too much effort. I’d probably just crinkle up like a crisp packet in the oven and quietly shrivel out of existence).

I’m not writing this for pity or for reassurance or even to rationalise my own behaviour. I’m doing the best I can. I just feel so much better opening up my heart and looking inside to see what’s there, like turning out an old purse to find amongst all the buttons and fluff there are a couple of dollars at the bottom that are worth something after all. Things are getting better, but it’s up and down. But that’s what rollercoasters do, and in the end, even though they scare the shit out of you and make you swear you’ll never go through it again, everyone does. They also, perversely, remind you that you are alive.

Last night James and I settled the most contentious issue of our divorce: who was getting the good set of saucepans.  We’ve both been eyeing them up for some time now and putting off the packing in the hope that it would simply sort itself out.  When the time came, ever the blunt one, I confronted the issue head on.  James betrayed his nonchalance with a clearly thought out argument for his keeping the non-stick, cast iron wonders over the M&S starter pan set that he has had since his university days.  My counter-argument was centred around his obvious attachment for the shittier set, sentimental value, and the fact that they do in fact belong to him.  In the end we decided to settle it the only fair way: a coin toss.  I am now the proud owner of a spanking set of saucepans; James must struggle on for the time being with the old ones.  (In a side note, Australian 50¢ pieces are fantastic for tossing.  It’s something about the weight that makes it so satisfying.)

After the Victory of the Pans it was only fair that I concede the next sticking point to James and after that we took it in turns to claim the better sets of anything we had duplicated.  There were obvious exceptions: personal gifts, for example, went with their original recipient whether they were loved or not – people expect to see the things they bought you in use when they come to your house – and anything with a dog or a cat on it went to James, naturally.  I got all the plain tea-towels, the decent wine glasses and the tupperware.  Once everything was settled, we packed up James’s half of the kitchen and left mine to use for the rest of the week.  When I say “we packed”, I mean “I packed” – James flapped around looking like he was packing, but I did all the hard work.  I don’t mind; effective packing is not a gift James shares.

So far it all sounds thoroughly amicable and we both laughed our way through our micro-battles over the slotted spoons and strainers.  In the interests of a fair picture, I should say that we did have a blazing row on Friday night about it all.  I was livid with James for not having started packing already; he was angry that I was so keen to get everything in boxes and out of the house.  Each of us is dealing with doing things we don’t really want to do according to type.  James has been putting it off because it’s too sad; I have been taking the “it won’t do itself and there’s no point whinging” approach, with added “whistle while you work” to make it less ghastly.  A good bust-up later and I think we both understand one another more, which made sorting out the kitchen – the heart of the home – less of an ordeal.

The kitchen was the last room to sort out.  Everything else is decided.  Now we await the dawn.

The fundamental tenet of gravitational law and rollercoasters is that what goes up must come down. After a couple of months on a permanent high of excitement and denial I must inevitably come to the crashing-down-to-Earth-with-a-bang part of the ride and you, dear reader, will just have to suffer through it with me. Don’t look so worried: it’s only 500 words.

The cause is simple and didn’t we all see it coming? Rebound. I said I couldn’t help myself and despite all my best intentions I was right: it turns out there is no way to rebound without making things worse. Why break up with one person when you can do it three times in as many months and have each one feel as heart-wrenchingly awful as the first time? Perhaps I enjoy the pain. Whatever the reason, this week I have decided to do the sensible thing, take myself in hand (figuratively speaking) and straighten myself out (again, figuratively). The dates have got to go.

Three things made me realise this: the first was that things are just moving too fast, especially with the older of the two, who in other circumstances might be a serious contender for my affection. In the space of a few weeks I am virtually nine months down the relationship track and it’s not healthy at all. Of course, this makes it all the harder to cool things down because (a) I would really like to stay friends and maybe start again slower down the line, and (b) I’ve just carried over all the anguish from the break-up with James onto this new proto-relationship, so I’m going to have to live it all again. Oh, deep joy.

The second two happened at the same time and quite suddenly, making me feel awful, then even worse in less than 24 hours. I came to my senses and realise that I was just being terrible to James, who has been nothing but supportive to me, by not dealing with the break-up properly. I’m not one for prescribing respectful waiting times for relationships past, but in this case I’ve just been running after something else so I don’t have to deal with how sad I am, which can only end in disaster. Concomitantly, three dear and nameless friends – each in their own way – told me plainly to sort myself out, get some self-respect and stop acting crazy: no one was laughing, everyone was worried and people were getting hurt.

There’s no denying that I have been out of my mind since the break-up. I get busy when I don’t want to deal with things, and I haven’t been properly single for nearly a decade. Everything that has happened over the past few months has been wildly out of character and fantastically ill-advised. The best I can hope for now is some understanding dates who are happy to be friends, and some friends who are happy to stick with me, too. It’s time to take a deep breath, bite the bullet and take what’s coming.

This part sucks.

One month on and whenever people ask me about how I am or how we are doing, I have a few stock answers that seem to cover the situation to everyone’s satisfaction. If you get one of these answers when you ask me any of the following, here’s what you can read into it.

Q: How are you getting on living together?
A: Oh, great. We didn’t fall out or anything, we’re just not going out any more.
Means: Fine. It’s like all the best bits of a our relationship with none of the tension. It’s a little weird because some times I find myself wondering why it couldn’t have been more like this when we were together, and reminding myself that we aren’t together for those very reasons. It’s like the anthropic principle of relationships: the answers you seek are the very reasons you can ask the question in the first place. Why do we live in a region of space perfect for life? Because if we didn’t, there wouldn’t be any life. Why do I have an emotional war going on inside me? Because you’re human. Suck it up.

Q: How are you managing? You seem to be holding up well.
A: Yeah, good thanks.
Means: I am in swinging brick mode because daily life does not allow me to fall apart and I do not allow myself to wallow or navel-gaze. To admit that emotionally I am up and down like a bride’s nightie may not seem like a victory to you, but it certainly feels like defeat to me. I am holding up well over all, but I have my low points. I just choose not to show it.

Q: Are you still friends? I’m glad your friendship survived.
A: Me too. He’s still my best friend.
Means: Me too. He’s still my best friend. I really am extremely lucky to have come out of this with a friend like James. Anyone who can refrain from judging you and wish you well, even when you split up with them, is a priceless wonder to be treasured. Hence the uncertainty, second guessing and general confusion. I’m certain that we’ve done the right thing, it’s just hard to see it all the time.

Well, dear friends, I have some bad news and there’s no easy way to tell you this, so I guess I had better just come right out and say it: James and I have decided to split up.  I know this is going to come as a shock to you, so I prepared some FAQs for you to help you deal with the news and prevent you turning to drink, losing your job and winding up in the gutter.  Obviously this all my point of view and I can’t speak for James, but I think we are both of a similar mind and he read this before I posted so anything really egregious has been taken out already.

What happened?
Certainly for the past little while something has been amiss and both James and I have not been happy with our relationship.  Everyone has their peaks and troughs and we dealt with ours like anyone else, but the peaks were getting shorter and lower, while the troughs were getting longer and closer together.  There comes a point when you have to say to yourselves that perhaps another round of “we must try harder” just isn’t going to cut it and there might be something more to what you are feeling.

I confess that I felt this more keenly than James, so last Friday I decided that the time had come to have the awkward talk where nothing is off the table.  Previously it was just not an option – splitting up was simply not on the cards – but this time things were different.  I didn’t go into the conversation planning to end everything, but in times like these all you can do is say how you feel and see what happens.  So that’s what we did.  I said everything that was on my mind, exactly how I felt, and what I thought the options were.  Then I waited for James’s response.  For the first time since I have known him, he gathered his thoughts.  He agreed with me.  We talked about what we should do, what we would do afterwards in each case, and how we felt about each one, and then, twenty minutes after we started, we finished.  It was all very amicable – sad, of course, desperately so – but we opened the good wine we had been saving and enjoyed a quality drink together.

But you were such a good couple!
Well thanks for saying so.  James and I are great friends, and we have great friends; how could we not all have a great time together?  This was one of the reasons that breaking up was so hard to identify as the right thing to do.  We have a whale of a time with our friends, we have great jobs and prospects, supportive families and good health: how could anyone possibly be unhappy with all of that?  The problem was that day to day we simply weren’t making one another happy.  What to do? Stay together for potential future you have, or consider the actual happiness you are feeling?  Clearly, we chose the latter.

So what happens now?  Are you coming back to England?
No.  I love it here.  I love my British friends to death, but I have a great life in Australia and I’m certainly not giving it up less than a year after I arrived here.  I’m sure James feels the same.  Things are pretty much carrying on as normal for now.  I have moved into the spare room, but like it or not, James has been my best friend for three-and-a-half years and that was never the problem.  We get on famously and with a few changes to the domestic arrangements things are going just fine.  We have some joint debts to pay off (like the flights to the UK in three months!) and once that is done, I suppose we’ll assess what we should do next – move out, divide up the stuff, move somewhere else with more people, or just carry on as flatmates – but for now there’s no awkwardness or hostility and we both have our own lives.  If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.

So that’s it.  Just what Sydney needs: another two single gays. But with all the great friends we have made together over the past few years, at least we’ll never really be alone.