I was planning on doing the chirpy up-beat thing on this blog for a while to encourage myself but I am failing miserably. I am lonely and it sucks. I am heartbroken and that sucks even more. I was wondering what’s the point in even blogging? It’s not like anyone reads this anyway, and if no-one reads what’s the point in putting it out there? I started this blog because I thought I had stuff worth saying but the PhD is hard, really hard, and so it is tough to find the energy to be creative with this blog of mine. So yeah, welcome to the pity-party. I am not in a good place right now, though I am sure it will get better at some point. Once the PhD is done and I have time to have a life again perhaps.
I have been mainlining Grey’s Anatomy these last few days, and I should go to bed but the five year old in me insists she isn’t tired and it’s not time for bed yet. So I’m writing – rambling I should say.
Why am I lonely? Because the only social life I have is at work, with my fellow PhDs and Post-Docs. I quit Jiu Jitsu because it was stressing me out and making me feel like shit but I miss the exercise and the camaraderie on the mat. My friends and family are all based in London and the South East making it is a six hour round trip to see them.
I should say that it’s not all bad – I had a lovely week last week with my Dad, living on his narrow boat on the Grand Union Canal. It was peaceful, with birds and trees and water, and it was quiet, with no traffic going past my windows. We celebrated his birthday with tapas and sangria, and I got to hang out with my aunty, my brothers and their girlfriends, and it was fun. I got to joke and laugh and talk about things that weren’t the PhD. I was reminded that I am loved and that my family will always be here for me. I got to spend a weekend with my Squishy and talk about the things that have been bothering me. I got to have dinner with my best mate in all the world and we talked about our careers, our families, our friends and our dreams. I spent the week doing work on and off in a low key way that meant I actually got a chunk of data analysis done.
So I am grateful, I am, but coming back to Cottonopolis was the worst.
The first couple of days were fine and yet it has rapidly slipped away from me. It’s not to say I haven’t been productive, I have, but I feel like shit because going home for a week reminded me what I’m missing.
With my housemate gone, I come back to an empty flat every night. I have literally no-one in this city to hug, no-one on whose shoulder to cry, no-one to turn to when I feel down. So am I on my couch, eating chocolate, drinking wine and watching Grey’s Anatomy, à la Bridget Jones, but it’s a panacea, not a cure and I still feel so very lonely.
Yes, I’ve called my friends, yes, I’ve spoken to Squisher, but it doesn’t help all that much because they are not here.
My support system is 200 miles away and there is nothing I can do about it apart from tough it out. In six weeks I will be back home in London, with my Mum, my brothers and my two best friends, and my partner will only be two and a half hours away rather than 5, which will be a significant improvement. It is an impermanent situation. It will not last for ever, but in the meantime? Truly it sucketh.
As for my heartbreak? My housemate, who was also the closest thing I have ever had to a girlfriend and was also one of my kinky play partners, fucked off to LA, stiffing me for rent and bills for FOUR FREAKING MONTHS in the process. She had nothing but kind words and sweet goodbyes for me when she left, but the second she was out of the country, she took to blanking me. I had to contact her girlfriend to get any response at all, it escalated, and she’s still ignoring me. Not only that, but she left half her belongings behind, so not only do I have to sort my stuff out when I move, I have to sort out her left-overs too. Every time I go in her room (it is now the laundry drying room), I am reminded of what she has done. I am heartbroken, betrayed and furious. Mostly resigned, and still, foolishly, hopeful that she might return at the end of the tenancy but it is a fool’s hope and I know it.
Most likely, she will never come back to England, and I will never see her again. That is why I am heartbroken and so, once again, I am faced with a situation I cannot change. Time heals all wounds they say, but it is only partly true, and the time-scale on which it does so is far longer than I would like.
There is nothing I can do. In fact all I can do is keep putting one foot in front of the other and just keep swimming, but it’s tough, friends, it really is.